MEXICO SIX: The Devil Inside

[Note: Blogspot lists these chapters in reverse order. To read earlier adventures, scroll to the bottom or click here to go to the beginning.]

BREAKING THE BOYCOTT... OR MYKEL SELLS OUT TO HIS EGO__ part 6

Note 1: This column is a bit out of order... a jump ahead. The reason is that it was partially written as a column for Maximum Rock'n'Roll. Then I found out I was supposed to be writing my April Fool's column... and this one is true! So I'm editing it and posting it on the travel blog. I'll fill in the missing days later.


Note 2: Another version of the character introductions has appeared in this blog. Sorry, but I like this version better.

“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... neck muscles tighten... relax... tighten again... gray flecked 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 adventure.

Gwera's real name is Berenice, The spelling of Güera, Guera, Gwera, forever flabbergasts me. 

Add to that, 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... and what do you get? Gwera or Güera or Guera, I donno! She works as a nurse with Donn. She's the Sin Arte guitar player. And she's really cool.

Then there's BEEF

I meet Beef while he's cooking ribs in a small grill in Gwera's back yard. He stands to greet me. He's a giant of a white guy, with big meaty hands, and a head full of black hair.

“I'm BEEF,” he says.

I think he's speaking quaint Arizona talk, meaning something like “I like eating beef.” Every place has its dialect, and I can imagine the other citizens of Arizona introducing themselves as I'm spaghetti. or I'm Egg McMuffin.

 

“I'm Peking Duck,” I tell him, trying to sound like a native.

“I know who you are, Mykel,” he says. “I'm Beef. You're Mykel.... like Tarzan and Jane.”

“Which one of us is Jane?” I ask him.

He laughs. Then he brings the grillings into Gwera's kitchen, spices 'em up, serves 'em to us on tortillas! Ah heaven. Almost Mexican.

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 real 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.

Ivan is the bass player for La Merma, maybe the most famous band from Sonora... the North Mexico county where the Sin Arte tour did not take place. You can read about why somewhere in this blog... or in a future one.

I met Ivan several months ago in New York. He told me how much he enjoyed reading my columns “when I was a little boy.” Yeah Ivan, thanks.

Still, I like the guy a lot! He's funny, expressive, and a fuck-up. He used to live in Nogales, on the American side, right at the Mexican border.

“I woke up to the sound of a hand grenade, just on the other side of the wall,” he tells me.

While I was in Mexico, Ivan got kicked out of his Nogales place 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. 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. They're 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. (Turns out I'm right.)

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.

Actually, Sin Arte listened to ARTLESS songs “once or twice,” and never rehearsed them. Also as it turns out, every show in Mexico is canceled.

That leaves two shows. One in Tucson. One in Flagstaff. The Tucson show is at The Dry River Collective. The one is 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 Cojobo. Javier has a shopping bag full of 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 one 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.”

Javier 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 on their faces. I wonder if it's a local fashion. Then I remember today is Day of The Dead. They sure look good... could make a necrophiliac out of me. Let's hope Javier can get them drunk enough.

There's no stage, just a floor area for the band to play... marked off with amps at one end and a drumkit at the other.

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 (not in a band) in the place... a good-looking skinny boy about 18.

By now there's 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. I don't see much going 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 shows over. Pack up. Go home.”

Beef begins to argue with him. Then Nurse Rached joins the fray.

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

“It's only a smoke bomb,” says Beef, sipping out of 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.

The Dry River 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. They do a fine set. And then it's us, Sin Arte.

Mata Los Gingos 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, just listening.

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!”

Some politico guys look angry. One of 'em gives me the finger. He's very serious.

I hand the screamer 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 shows 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.”

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 place... a bit. But I don't have time to tell you about that show... yet. You'll have to wait for the another blog entry.

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! And if you're passing through Flagstaff, play at their club. Then get the hell out of the state.

More later.

---

[This is part 5 of Mykel's Mexican adventure. To read the rest, click on the right spot:

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5

The story of the Yellow Chili Pepper is here.

And, you can go directly to Mykel's own website.

MEXICO ONE: BREAKING THE BOYCOTT... OR MYKEL SELLS OUT TO HIS EGO

BREAKING THE BOYCOTT... OR MYKEL SELLS OUT TO HIS EGO

 
Imagine twin clown noses tightly squeezed together. Glowing red, so bright they seem lit from within. Those are my balls. Worse case of jock itch I ever had. Jock itch. I hate that term. How about jungle rot? Crotch mildew? I donno. I've got so much fungus growing between my legs that every time I take a piss, the air smells like mushroom soup.

I read on the internet that something called tea tree oil will fix you right up. It comes from Australia and costs $20 for 4 ounces. It smells like Eucalyptus... Halls cough drops, Dr. Bonners... I try it. Hurts like hell.

It makes my balls redder than ever. The itch... the pain has spread to my legs, to the taint. Used to be I couldn't go a minute without thinking about my dick. Now it's my balls that provoke even less noble thoughts.

And we three... my balls and I... are on a plane to Phoenix of all places. But let's zoom out a bit to get some perspective.

I'm glad I already wrote a column in praise of hypocrisy. Here I am... the month after urging my surging fandom to boycott Arizona. Here I am, Mr. Vivan Los Chicanos. Here, I am, Mr. Ethnically Correct. Sitting on a back porch in Tucson, waiting till Mr. Beef finishes the steak on the backyard barbecue grill. Do I get points that this house belongs to a Mexican American? That it's in a Mexican neighborhood? That the whole purpose of being here is Mexico... not Arizona? I don't think so.

Not by way of excuse, but by way of ego boost, I'll tell you why I'm here.

“Hey Mykel,” writes Gilberto, “some of your Mexican fans want to put together a band, learn your songs, and then have you come down and sing with them. You'll tour Mexico with Cojoba (a Puerto Rican band). What do you think?”

What the fuck do you think I think? I'm so there!

“Umm...,” he continues, “a couple shows will be in Arizona.”

“I'm boycotting Arizona,” I tell him.

“You're with Mexicans, Puerto Ricans. It's okay,” he says.

I'm convinced.

So the tour will be Sin Arte (the Artless coverband), Cojoba, La Merma in a reunion tour, plus shows with other groups in other places. It'll last 10 days, 4 shows in Mexico and 2 in Arizona. Every band will be Mexican or have Mexicans in it... except Cojoba. And they are half Puerto Rican, and a quarter each American Negro and Dominican American. Gilberto will be the tourmeister, pay for the van rental, take care of our special needs. He's also invited me to his birthday party... with his family in Agua Prieta.

Juarez is the most dangerous city in Mexico. Numbers two and three are Tijuana and Nogales. My pal Ivan, who lives on the US side near the Nogales border was awakened one night by a hand grenade. I will not be going to Juarez. The rest, oh yeah!

I wear my Greetings To Arizona from Mexico t-shirt. It shows a sunset behind a cactus... the cactus giving the finger to the gringos across the border.

I wear the boots I gave up because of severe leg pains. I can't tour Mexico wearing Payless sneakers. It's gotta be combat boots. Only ten days, what harm could they do in that time? Yeah right.

Flash to now: Medium shot inside the plane, still on the ground in New York: Me, my red balls and my combat boots. There are only a few empty seats. One next to me. Pretty good luck, I think.

Then they let on the stand-by passengers. A 30-something blond wearing a business suit. Her expression so stern and her demeanor so I-Mean-Business, that I don't even look at her tits. She sits down, crosses her legs, pointing the top one away from me. Then she begins to dribble snot.

Coughing, sneezing, nose blowing. By the time the plane takes off there is a Berlin Wall of snotty tissue between me and her. Fuck, just what I need on the way to Mexico, some dorky gringa to make me sick.

When the plane lands in Phoenix, I load up on vitamin C, but it's too late. The cough has already started and there's more to come.

It's 3 hours in the airport until the others show up: Gilberto, the best thing to come from Mexico since Texas, Pamela, a cute little chicana whose got more balls than most guys and Ivan La Merma, a pal and the guy from Nogales who heard the grenade. They're coming from Spain via Boston.

A recorded voice comes through the airport speakers: Welcome to America's friendliest airport. The current terror alert level is orange. When you proceed to the gates, please be advised that all liquids must be in containers of no more than three ounces each. They must be placed in clear plastic bottles, sealed in a ziplock bag, and put separately in a tray. You will be subject to search at any time. Do not accept any gifts from strangers. Do not accept any ride offers from drivers inside the airport. The airport is equipped with surveillance cameras.... Welcome to America's friendliest...

Inside the airport are empty food concessions. A Starbucks. No. A McDonalds. No. I go to DICK CLARK'S for some too-expensive food and a beer to take care of my waiting time.

I remember Dick Clark's from a Michael Moore movie. Something about taking welfare mothers away from their babies. I can't recall the details.

When I walk in there is no one on the floor. A blond bartender is talking with the only customer, somebody commenting on the football game on the TV. I'm trying to get someone to help me, but there is no one. The place looks deserted.

Behind the cash register is a bored-looking white woman-- as bland as daytime TV. Blond, mid-40s, completely forgettable. I ask her if I should just take a seat.

“See that sign behind you?” she says, pointing with her thumb.

PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED it says.

Couldn't she just say, “I'll be happy to show you to your seat?” 

Does she have to be an Arizona equivalent of Wassamatta you dumb?

She's the first of the Arizona White Girls. You'll hear more about them. One of 'em was elected governor. They are serious. They are nasty. I do not like them.

“Can I get you something to drink while you're waiting?” she asks when she shows me to my seat. I'm the only customer and it's 7PM. Maybe the boycott's working.

“I'll have a Sam Adams,” I tell her.

“Can I see your I.D.?” she says.

I'm 70 years old, pretty bald, with gray chin hair. I can only guess she wants to check my ID to make sure I'm not an illegal Mexican.

I show her my driver's license. She nods and leaves.

The beer is okay. The food is awful. Before long Gilberto, Ivan and Pamela arrive at the airport. I meet them at the baggage collection area. Gilberto and I go from there to the Phoenix car rental office. He hands his debit card to the woman behind the counter.

“Sorry,” she says. She's a white girl with a scrubbed face and an I'm gonna grow up to be Sara Palin smile.

  
 “I see this is a one way rental,” she says, staring at Gilberto's RELAX GRINGO, I'M LEGAL t-shirt. “We can't rent one way to... I mean on... debit cards. Only real credit cards.”
 

“What do you mean...” starts Gilberto.

I kick him subtly.

 “No, problem,” I say. “We'll bring it back here.”

 He looks at me with wrinkled brow. 

I flash a wink, then rub my eye like it's got something in it. The white girl takes the debit card.

As we walk to the parking lot and the 7 person van, Gilberto speaks.

“You mean, all you have to do is lie?” he asks.

I nod... Then cough... uh oh!

“You tell 'em what they want to hear,” I say. “It's like speaking to the cops. Yes officer. I realize I shouldn't have run that red light. My mother is in the hospital I was just trying to reach her before she sucks in her last breath of air. I panicked, but it was wrong and I know it. I'm sorry. Just tell 'em what they want to hear. They don't care about truth anymore than your girlfriend does when she asks How do I look?”
 

I don't know what happens to Ivan and Pamela. I guess they take her car. It's only Gilberto and me who drive the 2 hours to Tucson.

“This is the only Mexican neighborhood I know that's right downtown,” says Gilberto.

“I wonder why?” I ask. “Don't they have any pretentious white artists to move in and kick out the Mexicans? In any case, we'd better lock the car doors and turn on the alarm when we get out.”

He knows me well enough to laugh. Others in the neighborhood, it will turn out, do not.

When we arrive, Gwera meets us at the door. She looks like your typical Arizonan. Blonde, light skin, cute in a tough-looking country way. Weird that she lives in this Mexican neighborhood.

“Hi,” says I.

“Ola,” says she. She Mexican.

Also at the door is Mona. Mona doesn't bother with the formalities. She's all over me. Passionately kissing me, right from the start. Just on me, like a dog in heat. In fact, she is a dog in heat. And she's shedding like a rattlesnake in the sun.

Then comes a rumble, a shake. Do they have earthquakes in Arizona? No. It's just the train passing. Right outside the front door. So THAT'S why the Mexican neighborhood is right downtown. It's next to the tracks!

On Gwera's back porch is Ivan, and this huge white guy with jet black hair combed Elvis style... Presley not Costello.

Ivan and I hug. The huge guy is broiling some meat on a tiny barbecue. Smells good.

“I'm Beef,” says the huge guy, shaking my hand.

I don't get it, but figure it must be Mexican-Arizona dialect that means I'm cooking beef.

“I'm hungry.” I say. “All I ate today was Dick... Clark.”

Then I cough some more-- God's punishment for breaking my boycott Arizona pledge. The bitch-goddess pays me back for my hypocrisy. After three hours next to the sick blonde on the plane, I've suddenly got a cough--- and I'm starting to drip snot myself. Are my glands swollen or am I happy to see you?

Beef takes the beef from the grill, carrying the hot meat in the aluminum foil it was cooked in. He does not offer it to me, but takes it past all of us into the kitchen. There, he delicately cuts the pieces, seasons them, rolls them into soft flour tortillas, and hands them to us: me, Gwera, Ivan, and Gilberto.

“Here you are,” he says with more than a touch of modesty. “I really hope you like them.”

They're delicious. Such a big guy, but such a good cook, and so delicate with the spices. Such a meek and modest guy.

The next time I see him, he'll be pouring a drink over a white girl's head. He becomes one of two white guys I like on this trip.

Cojoba shows up: Taina, the singer and personality of the band, Javiar, boyfriend of Taina, guitar player and Hell's Angeles wannabe... long hair and a headscarf (they're both GG Allin fans), semen-inducing Moe, bass player and Dominican American, and Ray, the black drummer born in the USA. It's his first time on tour.

(At Gwerna's house l to r: in back: Mykel, Ivan, Moe, Javiar, Gilberto. In front Taina, Mona)

Those guys brought their sleeping bags. Me? I sleep on a mattress on the floor, covered with dog hair. Soon, I'm also covered with dog.

My cough gets worse during the night. And we have to leave tomorrow and drive all night to reach the show in Tijuana.

(By the way, the U.S. government has issued a travelers advisory against visiting Tijuana.)

It's the only Mexican show Sin Arte is not scheduled to play, and we have to drive 16 hours to get there. But that's grist for the next blog entry.

[This is part 1 of Mykel's Mexican adventure. To read the rest:

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

The story of the Yellow Chili Pepper is here.

And, you can go directly to Mykel's own website.