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Friday, December 29, 2017

Journey to the Center of New Zealand Part 2

Journey to the Center of New Zealand

Part 2: A latte with a side of water bazooka


After the bug museum we head off to eat.

[ASIDE] I forgot to mention that entry to the bug museum was free for Kael because he was a Nelson native... and free for me because I was accompanied by a Nelson native.

“Let's go to the kitchen,” suggests Kael.

“We're already in town,” I explain. “The kitchen is back home...” I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder, “through winding roads, over mountains... past llamas.”

“No,” he says, “The kitchen... THE KITCHEN. Connor said it was good.

“Where is the kitchen?” I ask Google, confident it would tell me “next to the dining room.”

I was wrong. It gave me an address and a little map... so off we went. Not far from where Alistair, Kael's dad who I'm probably spelling wrong... has his downhill bike office.

I could see why Connor (Kael's older brother) recommended it. Plenty of vegan choices for the vegan siblings... Tolerent Kael didn't flinch when I had something nice with salmon in it. I ordered a ginger beer and Kael wanted some fruit thing.

STOP: Let me explain the system in New Zealand... It's similar to a few places in the US... and the same as MosBurger in Japan. You go to the counter, and order your food. Then you pay and get a number at the end of a metal pole that looks like a giant old-fashioned bill-spike. You pay for the meal and take the numbered spikey thing to your table. The waiter/ess finds you by your number.


I like to eat/drink outside. Kael was accommodating. We took a seat. Near us was a small cart with two shelves. On the top shelf were dirty dishes, probably just cleaned from the tables. On the second shelf, were two large green water pistols, and a huge water bazooka.


“Can I order a water bazooka on the side... like ketchup or hot sauce?” I asked Kael.

“They're called BLASTERS,” he tells me. “Sure you can.”

“Do kids come home... soaking wet... after going out with their friends... saying Hey Mom, I went out with my friends and got sooooo BLASTERED?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, “happens all the time.”

Here comes the waitress with our food. Kael has ordered a vegan tart with his vegan sandwich.

“Can I get you anything else,” asks the waitress... one of those darker pretty women whose short shorts reveal that her legs go all the way down from her hip to her ankle.

“Yes please,” I say. “I'd like some hotsauce and a water blaster.”

“Sure,” she says, “you want a plain or a bazooka.”

“Uh...” I stutter. “I was kidding. Why exactly do you have water pistols in an outdoor restaurant?”

“For the seagulls, of course” she answers... like I'd asked why they serve food in an outdoor restaurant.

“The seagulls shoot water pistols?”

Kael kicks me under the table.

“It keeps them off the tables... we like to shoot them without actually hurting them.... They steal food and make poo over everything.”

[NOTE: POO is New Zealandish for SHIT. I've also heard the word in American places outside of New York... But I think it's an affectation.]

I open my mouth to say something else, but Kael kicks me again.

Okay, Mykel. Time to go to the OTHER MUSEUM... and the park. But what's this CENTER stuff? You'll find out!

--- next time: Is That The World's Longest Freshwater Eel in Your Pocket or Are You Happy to See Me?


This is chapter 2. Check out chapter one here


Thursday, December 28, 2017

Journey to the Center of New Zealand Part 1

Journey to the Center of New Zealand

Part One

by Mykel Board

There are two central characters in this true adventure. Mykel, your narrator, who you should already know. If not, I'll introduce you. Here's a picture with the Nelson butterfly man:



The photographer is also my guide. The intrepid Kael, ho has agreed to lead me through adventures on my last day in Nelson.

Here he is showing off his green rock... a traditional gift of Maori tradition, that cannot be bought for oneself, but must be given in recognition of some specific trait... like bravery, or skill in wild bore hunting. Kael won his for his HARD WORK ability. I don't think they have one for my special skills.




 That's Aleister... aka “Dad” in the background.

We hadn't originally planned to trek to the geographical center of the country. I mean, who visits Lebanon Kansas, right?

My usual goals in any city adventure are:


1. Something “in nature”
2. A local restaurant
3. A museum
4. A brewery
5. A strip club

Since Kael is 11 years old, I figured we might skip the last two... at least for a year or two. Kael wanted to include THE LIBRARY in the trip. (NOTE: Kael and his older brother Connor are kinds of superstars in my book. They're both under 15, yet do not spend their sparetime liking “friends” facebook posts about sneakers.

Both of them READ (I mean books... you know, things with pages, and ears that you can dog) and both of them follow mom into music. (NOTE: my connection to the family is through Mom who played guitar in an all-female band SPITBOY... in the 90s). When the kids have nothing to do and there are no books handy BLAM!! They're off to the soundproof room, on guitar and drums... sometime with mom sitting in.on bass or they switch instruments. Mom did it right!

Back to the trip. Dad... a cool guy and professional moutain-biker (it's complicated, but a great story in its own right) drove us into town from their place on a back road on top of a back hill in the foothills of the local local mountains.  He dropped us off at the bike center.

“Call mom when you're ready to come back,” he says. “There's not much to do.”

Boy was he wrong!

[NOTE: Right now the boat has begun rockin'. Up and down. Side to side. Passengers are staggering like drunks. This is so much fun... ]

FIRST STOP: The information center, where Kael takes my picture with the butterfly man, and we get maps (yes! He can read a map that is NOT an app! And that rhymes.) and ask how to get to:

THE BUG MUSEUM! says Kael. “We gotta go to the bug museum.”

A kindly local information officer knows what he's talking about and marks it down. The other famous museum in town is the Suter Art Gallery... the info man makes an X on the map. And we're off... following the map to the streets to a trail on the floor:





You guessed it. THE BUG MUSEUM.



I can't say I know a lot about bugs. Even the word BUGS conjures up-- for me-- a different image:




At first the museum looked like a piece of Andy Warhol pop art. Just a copy of what you'd see every day anyway. Can you say Mykel's Kitchen?





Other displays though, were  weird, interesting... surprising...

Forensic Entomology?





Just filled with MUST KNOW information that I'll put it to work as soon as we get to land.



Then there was this... encouraging people to EAT bugs:



And Kael, being a vegan, wasn't interested in the animal protean.

I found it interesting that the museum has tried the same It's just protein. It's good for you. line that I've tried unsuccessfully for the last 50 years-- in a different context.

 Maybe it works for them.

Leaving the museum, we stopped to take pictures before being devoured.


Coming up: A Latte with a side of water bazooka.

For a more offensive/opinionated read, check out mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Saturday, December 23, 2017

Pacific Blog Entry 3... all over the place

Starting out in CHRISTCHURCH, NZ

I awaken naked... under a heavy blanket in the guestroom at Vera's place. Last night was shower night... There's something refreshing about sleeping nude when your body is clean and your mind isn't. I have no idea what time it is... there is light outside, but as this is the longest day of the year it could be 5AM or 9PM...

Wristwatches, as obsolete as human contact in 2017, I reach for my phone and press the turn-on button. PLEASE CONNECT YOUR CHARGER... it says. The time 6:36AM. Why?

I'm suffering a kind of jet lag...not from jets, though. Maybe I should call it social lag. Things stop here at 10... 9... 8. Two nights ago Vera and I went out to drink. We started looking for a place by the beach at around 8:30. Our first stop... a nice little restaurant/bar with outdoor seating... was closed... The waiter and waitresses were arranging the furniture for the next days' breakfast crowd.

At 9, we found another bar/restaurant... again with outside seating. (I love to eat and drink outside. People are more open, natural when there're no walls. You look up and see far... the sky. Often there are smokers, naturally friendly people... and facing nearly universally approved discrimination... joined together... with a greater solidarity than any ethnic, religious, or gender group. Smokers are friendly, often meditative, social in away that phone obsessed millennials cannot be. I often wish I could be one of them, but a bad lung and an over-active mucus system prevents it.

There are about ten others in the outside area. They all sit at a single long table. Their conversation is loud, but not unpleasantly so. Vera and I take a table close... but not too close. A single strand of cigarette smoke comes from someone at the other table.

Two or three minutes after we sit down. One of the guests-- a woman wearing a checked kercheif-- stands with that watch-looking gesture that means... Time to get out of here. I wonder if she really has a watch.

In two or three minutes, the table is empty and Vera and I are the only ones left drinking in the vast outdoor space. At 9:30 we leave.

So my jet lag comes from changing from a night to a morning person. From one who starts his night-crawls at 9:30... to one who ends them at that time. From one who sees the sunrise as a signal for bedtime to one whose sleep ends with the rising sun.

FLASH TO NOW: I sit at the library... the Manchester Central Library... but it's not in Manchest, it's in Christchurch. I've had adventures, but they've been (mostly) solo adventures. Tiny things I've done or felt. And feeling is the key.

My bad lung is acting up and my continual cough keeps people at a distance. My bowels are also acting up and that too keeps people at a distance. A massive dose of monolaurin has prevented a sore throat from following its usual 8 day progress into snotfilled nostrils--> sneezes--> runny eyes--> fever--> cough... and gone directly from the sore throat to the cough.

I sit at a long table with outlet extension cords placed every 2 yards or so. The table is poorly located in front of large open windows that require you to look directly into the sun... This being Christchurch... there is rarely sun.

ASIDE: There is a cliché in England that goes: If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes and it'll be something else. Here in Christchurch, it's more extreme. If you don't like the SEASON, wait five minutes and it'll be a different one. Mid-day, you go out in short sleeves. The natives walk around barefoot (but I think they do that every season), in shorts, t-shirts. Fall comes about 5PM... by 6:30 it's winter and those in-the-know put on the downcoats they've brought with them to the beach.

In the morning... at least at 6:36 this particular morning, it's early spring. Comfortable under the covers, but shriveling cool lying naked on the bed. I try to get back to sleep... but my 67-year old bladder needs emptying. Likewise my overactive bowels.

ASIDE: These days I can rarely go more than 90 minutes without having to shit or piss... usually both. I can postpone fecal exit by carefully controlled gas leaks that confuse my body into thinking it has produced an honest-to-god offal expulsion.... But before long the piper has to be paid.

Some days, when I have a specific adventure in mind... or when I'm planning on meeting old friends, strangers, or those with whom I hope to exchange bodily fluids... I take a morning Immodium with my daily vitamins and monolaurin. Today is not one of those days.

So I look out the window at the Rolling Thunder/Harley Davidson sale shop... the Honda/Ducati shop... and the powertools rental shop I can't see the name of. For the second time since I've started writing this, I fill the urge to relieve the gas slowly building in my bowels.

AND OF ASIDE: In many places, people go to the mountains... or to “the country” to feast on the peace and quiet of a non-urban landscape. As a city boy, the peace and quiet of Christchurch was country-enough. I couldn't imagine enjoying a trip to a place where the bars close even earlier. So when Vera suggested a ride out to a farm, I was less then enthusiastic... I was wrong.


The cityside does not have Bison, Llamas, or older German couples living an organic life... wearing Grateful Dead t-shirts. The countryside does... and it was great. I didn't manage to get the Bison, but here are the Llamas:

There are also sheep, cows, and horses. More cows, than sheep... this was something much different from the last time I was in New Zealand.

“Blame it on the changing economy,” Vera told me. “There is a dairy company... based in New Zealand... the largest in the world. And they give subsidies to farmers who change from sheep to cows. So they change. Herders become farmers. Cows... not native to New Zealand replace ... the native sheep. It's very sad.”

“I'm usually a fan of immigration,” I tell her. “but I see your point.”

ASIDE: New Zealand is very sensitive to the issue of invasive species. Sometimes, I think it's a codeword for HUMAN immigrants. Everywhere you look you see veiled references... you tell me if this (from the Wellington Museum) isn't something right out of Donny Trump's instruction manual on immigration:

FLASH AHEAD Today is Xmas Eve day... I've left Christchurch and am now in Nelson... Not named after the TV family, but after the British admiral who defeated someone or other. I'm in a park... there are bright yellow and red flowers. Birds are chirping...This morning... breakfast way the fuck up in the middle of nowhere. The kid of the family... 8 years old, I'd guess... first words at the table.

“Gee, I hope it rains today.”

Not something you usually hear at breakfast in a place by the ocean. But it hadn't rained for 3 months. Yeah, that's past perfect there, buckarooS! I did it!

--More coming

for my more controversial non-travel writing check out mykelsblog.blogspot.com


Monday, December 18, 2017

6th Day of Hanukah-- Pacific Blog Day 2

MYKEL'S PACIFIC BLOG
Entry 2

I restart this entry after a computer crash that wiped out my previous attempt at an update..

I'm now on a bus traveling from Picton to Christchurch. It's been an event-filled couple of weeks, including Los Angeles, where Julien in the midst of several personal crises... still had time to attend to his friend on (mostly) and off (once for a long time) for 30 years. Waiheke island, where Reneta made me several meals a day and the only payment expected was my changing into a bathing suit to help wash the porch screens. Wellington where Mr. (and Mrs) Sterile took care of me like a long-lost punkrock friend.

Right now, the computer is on the blink. It shuts down and loses everything if the bus goes over a bump... and bump is the name of the game. The Internet is spotty in this mountainous land of 4.5 million people who walk barefoot on public streets. Where all the signs are in English, with an abbreviated version in Maori... which had no written language until the English transcribed it using English letters.

I don't think I've heard Maori spoken on the street, though I have heard German, Chinese, Swedish, some unidentifiable Slavic language and New Yorkese (“You talkin' to me? Fuhgeddabouddit!”). I've made it to Christchurch, the biggest city on the South Island. I hear there's a synagogue in town... it's long been my dream to take a picture of a synagogue in Christchurch. The irony is just too good to pass up.

I've been on the road for 18 days now... one in a hostel. It's the kindness of friends that bed me down every night (not THAT WAY!) and from start to now I have to thank:

Julien (LA in the fire)
Renata (Waiheke & Aukand)
Kieren & Chrissy (Wellington)
Vera (Christchurch)

I've been traveling in New Zealand using the INTERCITY BUS SYSTEM. It works like this:

You buy TIME in advance. For example, I bought 45 hours. Then you reserve a bus from Y to Z and they deduct the time it SHOULD take to go that distance. When you get to zero, you can “top off” buying extra hours.

The buses are more comfortable than Mega or Bolt... but they have no electrical sockets. (Which are weird here anyway. They look something like a facebook SURPRISE emoji.)


The “wi-fi” on board is pretty spotty, but that's what you get most places with a lot a mountains and few people. Most annoying, however, is the bus schedule. Yesterday, on the trip from Picton to Christchurch, the bus left at 7:30... AM!!! Oh yeah please be at the busstop at least 15 minutes early to check-in with the driver.

From Christchurch I go to Nelson, and the leaving time? 7AM??? Are they kidding? That's bedtime! What? Do we have to milk the cows before we leave?

I booked a hostel the night before so I could be close to the bus station.

“Don't worry,” says Vera, “I'll take you. You can cancel your reservation.”

“But that means getting up at 5:30 in the morning!” I say.

“No problem,” says Vera.

Like the others... I owe her big time.

Ah well, today was the sixth day of Chanukah. Vera's maternal grandmother was Jewish, so that means she's a Jew. Her friend Susan... visiting for dinner is also a Jew... a doctor! Vera had a menora... probably gotten in New York. No Chanukah candles in sight, but the age-old birthday candle trick worked like a dream. Waddaya think?

--more later

If you're interested in my nastier, more political writing, you can read me at:

Saturday, December 09, 2017

Pacific Trip: Entry One LA... ENTERING FROM THE REAR

ENTERING FROM THE REAR

Los Angeles Day One

Saturday Dec. 1, 8:18 probably Central Standard Time: The map in the seatback in front of me puts us over Kansas, 2 hours 54 minutes from LA. I've got a window seat... no one crawling over me to get out to piss. No baby screams behind me. Out the window, faint lights from the town below make an outline somewhat reminiscent of the Misfits skull logo.

Behind me there are two empty seats. In the middle one is a woman with a tubercular cough. I've already offered her a Fisherman's Friend .® She rejected my offer. Maybe because it was unlabeled and unwrapped. .

Her cough continually worsens. And while I'm not a gun-control advocate, it's times like these that I feel lucky in not carrying one. The woman behind me still has her cough... and her head.

It's just an allergy,” she tells me... as if that's a good enough excuse... Same excuse I used in Mongolia when I tried to pick up girls in the midst of a bronchitis attack. I forgot how to say Yeah right! in Mongolian... but I used to know.

I got to the airport, as usual, 4 hours early. Spent most of it in a facebook spat about sexual harassment® where I was called a shit, an idiot, and warned don't hurt your knuckles as you scrape them along the sidewalk when you walk. I love the intelligence facebook brings to discussions, don't you?

My travel reading is a thick book called A Gentleman in Moscow. It's got about 500 pages, and I'm about 10% through it. So far, an older aristocrat has befriended an 8 year old girl who want to be a princess. It's set right after the Russian revolution. Today, it would probably get the protagonist thrown in the clink for pedophilia. But so far, if there were a writers clink for boring the reader that's its crime.

I know. I know... I'm putting myself in a precarious position writing about writing.... but I've spent 70 years putting myself in precarious positions... what's one more?



December 7 I sit at gate 156 at LAX airport, closer to LA than Kennedy Airport is to New York. Of course, gate 156 is at the end of the gate path. The last gate. I remember a Jewish comedian (Jackie Mason?), who said that he had heartburn from childhood.. When, it once went away, he thought he was sick. So too, it would be if my gate were NOT the furthest one. I'd worry that something's wrong.

My pacific journey is 1/6 over. One week out of six. My looooong term pal, Julien Nitzberg has couched me for the entire trip. He's chauffeured me around in my Hertz Car, taken care of the dinner invitations, and dealt with my intestinal and sanitary peculiarities.

I've been treated to dinner by Julien's Dad. 4 nights of Oriental delight (nope, not THAT kind... I mean food) were orchestrated by Julien and attended by people I've known for longer than my beard has needed Just For Men.

Right now, I sit comfortably-though-slightly-chilled in the airport. There was a screaming baby-- suddenly silenced. One can only hope it was thrown to the tarmac. In the meantime, Los Angeles burns. What was a faint gray tinge on the horizon, has changed to half a skyful. What was a trickle of people leaving the park to escape the smoke, has changed to an evacuation of tens of thousands.

People stream out of LA to friends, relatives, Red Cross stations less comfortable even than airports. I wonder how the burbs will treat the refugees. Will they be deported into the flames? Meanwhile, against this outward flow of panicked Los Angelens, I drove my Hertz-Hyundai INTO LA, toward the airport... entering ...what most were leaving.


The first night is Thanksgiving. No... it's not thanksgiving, but somehow Thanksgiving was postponed and reincarnated. This being Los Angeles, the food has to accommodate, vegetarians, ovo-lactoites, vegans, non-glutens, organics, recovering alcoholics, feminists, turkifiles.


So, what's the food? Milk-free cheese, gluten-free crackers, meat-free pate, AND a bunch of terrific good stuff! Hooeeey! A friendly party! I brought the beer... a collection of weirdstuff from a beerstore with a bar in back. (What a great idea!) Here's one of my contributions.

The beer wasn't as bad as it sounds.

The party people weren't either! In fact, I had a great time. The food was good... though I skipped most of the vegetables. The crew was fun to talk to... laughed at the same things I laughed at. 

There were more girls than boys... for some reason that never happens when I host something. 

Among the conversations, several people talked about an era when I was in my 50s. They referred to that time as back in the day.

Oh yeah, the Turkey! Get a load of this!

Yeah it's a real turkey, but topped with.... CHEETOS AND DORITOS. Ho ho!

Great night ONE! No jet lag.

Postscript: I'm writing this from the library in a small town on Waiheke Island. (Google it!) Internet is spotty, and sooooo much has happened. It's December 10... I'm sunburned... spent the day so far washing... plastic drapes... in my bathing suit... (I was in my bathing suit. The drapes were not.)

Just 10 days out and the stories pile up... more later

PLUS: If you're interested in my contrarian opinions and other things, check out mykelsblog.blogspot.com.

More to come!

--Mykel


Monday, July 10, 2017

BELOIT 2017 Just a typical Long Weekend in Boardville

GOT ANY DRUGS?

or Mykel's 45th Beloit Reunion

by Mykel Board


I hate it when things go right... especially before an out of town trip...Smooth packing, not forgetting anything.... quick subway connections... sailing through security... plane on time... Waiting seat next to a working socket.... beautiful passenger sitting next to you in the waiting area... thrilled that you speak the exotic oriental language... and you're going to Chicago...
私もそこに行くよ! セックスコンベンションのために。 あなたは滞在する場所が必要ですか?

Those perfect leavings use up my entire stash of trip good luck... leaving nothing but broken mirrors, black cats, and inside opened umbrellas for the rest of the journey.

I write this from Gate 37 at the American Airlines terminal at Kennedy Airport in New York. From the way things have been going so far, this will be a great trip. An unclaimed backpack sits ominously alone by the window. I reported it an hour ago... no one has come to look at it. That's the least of my problems.

But let's begin at the beginning... this morning? Last month? 45 years ago? 72 years ago? 5777 years ago? Okay, forget that. Let's jump around like an avant garde novel.

1972: I graduate from Columbia College in Chicago. I've only been there a year and a half, but that's where my BA is from.

1991 It's the SPEW festival of fanzines in Chicago. I'm there as an observer, trading my just budding underground notoriosity for some free zines and beer where I can find it. What a crew. I meet Larry Bob, Dennis Cooper, the editors of a bunch of zines, including the best sex journal BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED. (He asks me to write for him.)

Then, there's this guy, somewhat shlubbish, somewhat just over the edge... on my side of that edge. He hands me a folded zine, xeroxed... so DIY-looking it reads itself. COPS HATE POETRY is the name.

Hi,” he says, “I hear you're Mykel Board. My name is Charles.” We shake hands.

1968 I travel from the riots at the Chicago Democratic Convention to my first year at Beloit College... a small mid-Western liberal arts college that has yet to see the likes of me... or the dozens of others fresh-from-Lincoln-Park warriors. Though I wanted to go to NYU, my father said NO!

If you go to school in New York,” he said, “you'll think the whole world is New York... you'll have no idea what the real world... or even America is really like.”

So I go to Beloit.

I spend three years there... including a 6 month “working experience” term in London, where I write for an Anarchist newspaper. I return to New York in 1971, quit Beloit and move on to Columbia College in Chicago.

2016 I get the notice in the mail... Time for your 45th College Reunion. It's a big one, Mykel. If you knew how few times in my life I've heard It's a big one, Mykel You'd know how enthusiastic I was in reading it. Even though I didn't graduate from Beloit I feel closer to it because I made more friends there and it was so isolated from urban America during my time there...except for the occasional riot in Madison. Plus, I can fly to Chicago, see Sid Yiddish who used to be Charles Bernstein, who I met all those years ago at the Spew fest and who I've stayed in touch with, traveled with, adventured with through the 25 years since.

2017 January or so. Arrangements are made. The plan: Visit Sid on Thursday June 8... He meets me at the airport around 7 and we go out Thursday evening. I rent a car on Friday. Drive to Beloit... Couch-surf there then go back to Chicago for a day the next week. Smooth as an Oriental's leg. Yeah, right.

2017 Thursday June 8 10:30PM: I now sit at the WORLD OF BEER in Evanston IL. I'm drinking a Sweetwarder Hash Session beer that that one of the Beer Citizen reviewers says has “definite notes of week.” It's not as good as my first beer here, the Ale Asylum Madtown Nut Brown (misspelled Adtown Nut Brown on the menu)... but it'll do. I arrived at 9:30. Sid's last text was he'll be here at 11.

June 7 earlier today: Packed, just leaving home... I check the gas on the stove... all burners off. I rap my knuckles on the wall. The pain will insure that I checked. I pick up my bags, struggle to turn around in the narrow hallway. Then go out the door, locking the door behind me , this time biting the middle nuckle of my right hand to remember the action.

I go down to the street. Cross the street. Still feeling the pain of the stove and door lock.... FUCK!!! I forgot the folder full of stuff I had for the library. Old papers, threats of expulsion.. clippings of condemnation from the dean...

Should I get the folder.. or just go to the airport... I still have time and I do want to bring that stuff.... Damn... I turn around and go back.... Crossing the street... up the agonizingly slow elevator unlocking my apartment door... suddenly overcome with the ferocious stench of natural gas.

I check my stove again. One of the burners is on... unlit and leaking gas into the apartment. I must have brushed against it when I picked up my bags. If hadn't gone back... who knows?

Gas turned off I go look for the folder for the archives. I find it. It is empty.

Sid's Mom
2017 January-Feb: I'm in Arizona visiting Sid's parents with him. He's become a part of my family over the years and met my parents shortly before they died.. He's friends with my sister, my cousins, their kids... one of the family. Now it's my turn.
Sid is a big guy but his parents are not. They small... fragile... look to be in their mid-80s. Dad walks with a cane... Mom seems in better health with a loving sense of humor. Her Spanish isn't bad either, though I was forced to go to Walmart to help her shop. She made a cake for Sid's and my birthday... close on the monthly calendar... about a decade on the yearly one.

It's nice to meet mom, I've been sending her my duplicate quarters for years.. and she knitted me a TUKE with my name on it. During this trip... I bought her a couple books to put the quarters in.

2017 Earlier today. I'm pissed off... I have TWO American Airlines frequent flier PLATINUM credit cards. That's supposed to be me group one booking on their flights. My Delta Goldcard gets me that... and Platinum is hoitier and toidier than gold! When I print my boarding pass from home, it comes out with the stamp GROUP FIVE.

At the airport I walk to the PRIORITY line that says its for ELITE PASSANGERS there are six attractive check-in girls servicing the fast-moving line. According to the sign, PRIORITY Includes first class, business class, and Platinum card holders. I show my drivers license and Platinum card to one of the two guards making sure only the priority-worthy can get on the end of that line.

Sorry, sir,” says the male guard. (I HATE being called SIR! It always means trouble.) “You have an ordinary Platinum card. The priority line is for Platinum SELECT members.”

“I just have an easy question,” I tell him.” I need to speak to someone about the boarding group.”

You can just go to that line next door,” he tells me. “No problem.”

(I HATE being told NO PROBLEM. Of course it's no problem for you, asshole. But it's a fuckin' problem for me.)

I move to the other line-- three people in front of me, including a lady with a small dog. . One unattractive woman at one check in counter. She's talking with a family showing their passports. She's laughing. They're laughing. They talk some more. The line grows behind me. 5 minutes in one place on line is a century. 10 minutes is an eternity. 15 minutes later they're still talking. The line has grown to half a dozen... a dozen... a dozen and a half. The man at the counter thanks the woman, the little kid... who has been passing in front of his parents like he was on line grabs his little suitcase... they're off.

Next,” she says.

This goes on for the next person... another 15 minutes. Then the woman with the dog. 45 minutes for 3 people.

The guy behind me looks like Ron Jeremy without the mustache.

Next,” she says.

One person before me, another woman comes to an empty counter. In 10 minutes I reach her.

I know it's not your fault,” I tell her, “but there has been only one person here for the past hour.”

I show her my credit card and drivers license to prove who I am. Then, I explain my group 5 problem.

The groups go up to 9,” she tells me. “Five isn't so bad.”

She pushes some buttons and prints me out a boarding pass. Boarding group 5.

Then I walk through the gate toward SECURITY. If there's anything I hate it's SECURITY. More than people who stand on the escalator walk side. More than subway riders pushing into the car before everyone gets out. More that drivers going the speed limit in the left lane... that's how much I hate airport SECURITY!!!

This time I'm prepared. I've only got a backpack and a small computer bag. In the computer bag is a folded trader Joe's shopping bag. I take it out... open it up... take off my boots (they always set off the metal alarm) and put them in the bag. Then I take off my belt... empty my pockets... wallet... keys...cough drops... ying-yang hankie... spare change... comb.. dump it all in the shopping bag.

Then I take out the computer.... the one I'm using now... a gift from Jody... a Eiiiiiiii... made it Taiwan. I put it in the shopping bag. Hah! I'm ready. I reach in the bag, pull out my wallet take the drivers licence out (ID, don't you know)... grab the just printed boarding pass (GROUP FIVE) and head for the security gate.

Excuse me Sir,” says a very butch-looking colored girl at the gate. “You can't go through security with three bags. It's against regulations.”

I don't hit her.

She looks at my boarding pass.

“And Sir!” she continues... (if she says it again I WILL hit her)... “You have priority boarding. You don't have to take your computer out or empty your pockets. You can leave you shoes on and just go through that short line over there.”

I don't cry.

They make me take off my shoes when I get to the gate... the metal sets off the alarm.

EARLY JUNE: Message from Sid. His Mom just died. She's been in and out of the hospital... had a pacemaker... “called to say good-bye”... all very sad. I was lucky enough to meet the fine woman on a trip to Arizona last year. She made a dual birthday cake for Sid and me. Now tragedy hits... and here memorial service? You guessed it... the day of my arrival... just too late for me to attend, but close enough that Sid has to be there when I arrive.

So, I just have to go to World of Beers... drink... and wait until he shows up. 

 
He shows up... things go... and here's a picture of us at the Diner the next day... with the waitress.

MONDAY JUNE 12: Back in Evanston returning the car. The Beloit weekend was over. Of course, it went well. So well, in fact, that I could stay on campus free... (a friend who didn't show up for his room). One night with a spectacular couch surfer.... and a trip to the great Rock County Beer Company in Janesville.

The highlight of the trip was on campus. I'm walking with Arthur Thexton and Jim Long... back to the dorms we're staying in... through the campus familiar to us from 45 years ago. Some girls are sitting on the wall by THE COMMONS. Their nametags say CLASS OF '07. This is their 10th reunion. They come over to us... talk to us... small talk. Then:

“We've got a little bit of money... you know where we can get some weed?”

YES! YES! YES! We're a John Holme's penis length more than double their ages... and they're asking us for drugs! WE'VE STILL GOT IT!! We still look like we could bring them drugs... or something equally alternative. YES! YES! YES! I may be old, but they still ask me for drugs!! HOOOOEEEEY!

JUNE 12: 3:32PM: Now I'm waiting at Portillo's Hot Dogs in Evanston. Ten miles away from the car rental place. Sid has been taken to lunch, so I have to wait until he returns. I sit at this old-style-order-at-the-counter-but-not-fast-food place, having just finished my giant chili dog... eaten with the first coke I've had this year. I'll wait until the food moves south a bit... finishing this blog... and giving Sid time to finish his lunch.


Too not be continued now... but with new adventures soon!

if you want to read more of my writing (more political, more controversial, grosser) check out mykelsblog.blogspot.com