Eskimo Food & TARDCORE or Mykel's Journey to the North #8

Eskimo Food & TARDCORE

or

The Eighth Entry:

by Mykel Board

My first morning on Disko Island, Greenland: I came in last night and was treated to incredible cookmanship. My current host, Georg-- like Inuaraq, my host in Aassiaat-- is as good as any high-class chef in any hoity toidy bar in New York. My cod & rice dinner was prepared so expertly, that I felt like leaving a tip! (I didn't.) Maybe its native. Maybe it comes from the Danish FOOD CHANNEL, on TV everywhere here. But lemme tell ya... New York needs an Eskimo restaurant! Thank you Georg! You're hired!

Right now, I sit in a large livngroom on a plush brown leather couch. My computer rests on a hard wooden table... Danish design... To my right is a large screen Philips TV. It rests on a wooden cabinet with one open shelf and a drawer. On the open shelf are video game controllers, old cartridges and other-- unidentifiable-- electronics.

To my left is a bookcase.. On the lower shelves are mostly cookbooks.. Kom og Spis (Come and Eat), Supper & Grydersetter (Soup and something I don't know in English) and a few others. There's also a delux version of the Guinness Book of Records-- in Danish-- and a coffee table book of ZEN. On the upper shelves are a few family photos, what looks like a framed bedtime prayer (in Greenlandic), and some Tupilaks... a unique-- and my favorite-- sculpture style that belongs only to the Inuit people.

On the walls are paintings and prints. Possibly done by my host, Georg. Lots of orange... small brush strokes... very Van Gough-ish. In the corners are plants... two hanging, two potted. The floor is natural wood smooth as a baby's ass. Two lights hang over the coffee table. They look cheaply installed, each on a single cord with the connecting cord to the ceiling wrapped ugily in the center. But the lamps themselves are frosted glass, elegant, with silver fittings. They probably cost as much as my plane ticket to Greenland.

The whole house has an air of San Francisco suburbs about it... tasteful in an expensive way. Except the bathroom. And not the whole thing, just THE TOILET! ...

It's a camping toilet... a plastic-lined bucket in a gray casing... with a lid. When the plastic bag fills, you put a baggie tie around the top, take it out of the bucket.... take the offal somewhere, dump it and put in a new plastic bag.

Yes, it's disgusting:

To be sure, my musician pal Georg only lives here part time. It's a September rental. Though he's originally from here in Qeqertarsuaq, this town of 800 people on Disko Island, he and his girlfriend have since moved to northern Iceland. His girlfriend, who's also the singer in his band, is still in there.

I can't figure out who exactly lives in this house. I think it's Georg, his girlfriend's sister, his girlfriend's sister's boyfriend (a friendly giant of a guy), a very attractive Eskimo girl who sleeps in Georg's bed. “She's just a friend... not a girlfriend.” And me.

Various people walk in and out of the place at various times of the day. Most asking for Georg. It's something I've seen in other places in Greenland. People know their neighbors, leave the doors open, neighbors walk in and out like customers at a Korean deli... AND Greenlanders have guns! They sell 'em at the equivalent of 7-11. Wow.

I make coffee... enough for myself and the other three people who I think are living here.

Drinking the coffee I'm again reminded of my intestines. Besides the coldsore, I've been farting and shitting up a storm. I can't walk a block without letting out a blaster. It's not from the food, that I can tell you. It's been this way ever since I started taking my stomach medication again. I quit tomorrow. I can't stand 2 minutes without having to evacuate bowel or bladder or both. Hold on while I...

WOW! A monster... in this unflushable camp-style toilet. A thick brown potato soup of a turd pile-- in a black plastic bag... like being pregnant and giving birth to a huge loaf of liquifying pumpernickel. I pop an immodium. But I know I'm not done yet.

In ten minutes, I'm back on the plastic bag... neither as productive nor satisfying as the last time... but necessary nonetheless. I take another Imodium.

Still, no one around... I guess they all left for work. It's about 10AM, I want to see the town. I write a note to Georg:

I have no key, so please don't lock the door. I also don't have your phone number to test. My number is +1[sorry, private for you readers], Text me so I'll have your number. Thanks, Mykel

I bundle myself up and go outside... just a few steps... then it hits again. I force myself to go on. I find the “tourist center” Georg told me about. It's closed. A restaurant next door... closed too. Some sort of office with a sign like LYGGITEEMIT on the outside. It's open. It looks like a restaurant, with one guy in there working on a computer. A chubby native woman sits behind a terminal.

Can I get breakfast? I ask.

“Until ten o'clock,” comes the answer.

“What time is it now?” I ask.

The woman stares through me. I pull my phone out and check the time: 10:26. The pain in my bladder increases. I leave. I pass a several named buildings that start with the letter P. I remember that the town's supermarket (there is one) starts with P... I try the door. One opens.

It's a kind of convenience store with some supplies for the cold and some Dorito-like snacks. I speak to the woman behind the counter in bad Danish. I translate here for those few readers who don't speak bad Danish.

“Is there a restaurant near here?” I ask.

“There's one down the street,” she replies.

“Is it open now?” I ask.

She stops, seeks guidance from God and answers, “No, it isn't.”

“Where can I get something to eat?” I ask. “Maybe a shop that sells wienerbrod.”

She nods and gives me detailed instructions in Danish. I understand about a third of what she's saying. I think she's directing me to the supermarket. Meanwhile, the pressure in my bladder builds. I thank her and leave. On the way out I see another door. A toilet? I try the handle. It's locked.

FLASH AHEAD TO THE FERRY FROM DISKO ISLAND BACK TO ASSIAAT: No whales, but several beautiful icebergs. I was in Qeqertarsuaq a day and a half. No aurora. No dogsled. A couple spectacular meals... a lot of shit.

Here's an iceberg while you're waiting. It's hard to get a sense of scale, though. Figure it's as tall as a 20 story building.... and they say it's only a third above water.

To be sure, my musician pal Georg only lives here part time. It's a September rental. Though he's originally from here in Qeqertarsuaq, this town of 800 people on Disko Island, he and his girlfriend have since moved to northern Iceland. His girlfriend, who's also the singer in his band, is still in there.

I can't figure out who exactly lives in this house. I think it's Georg, his girlfriend's sister, his girlfriend's sister's boyfriend (a friendly giant of a guy), a very attractive Eskimo girl who sleeps in Georg's bed. “She's just a friend... not a girlfriend.” And me.

Various people walk in and out of the place at various times of the day. Most asking for Georg. It's something I've seen in other places in Greenland. People know their neighbors, leave the doors open, neighbors walk in and out like customers at a Korean deli... AND Greenlanders have guns! They sell 'em at the equivalent of 7-11. Wow.

I make coffee... enough for myself and the other three people who I think are living here.

Drinking the coffee I'm again reminded of my intestines. Besides the coldsore, I've been farting and shitting up a storm. I can't walk a block without letting out a blaster. It's not from the food, that I can tell you. It's been this way ever since I started taking my stomach medication again. I quit tomorrow. I can't stand 2 minutes without having to evacuate bowel or bladder or both. Hold on while I...

WOW! A monster... in this unflushable camp-style toilet. A thick brown potato soup of a turd pile-- in a black plastic bag... like being pregnant and giving birth to a huge loaf of liquifying pumpernickel. I pop an immodium. But I know I'm not done yet.

In ten minutes, I'm back on the plastic bag... neither as productive nor satisfying as the last time... but necessary nonetheless. I take another Imodium.

Still, no one around... I guess they all left for work. It's about 10AM, I want to see the town. I write a note to Georg:

I have no key, so please don't lock the door. I also don't have your phone number to test. My number is +1[sorry, private for you readers], Text me so I'll have your number. Thanks, Mykel

I bundle myself up and go outside... just a few steps... then it hits again. I force myself to go on. I find the “tourist center” Georg told me about. It's closed. A restaurant next door... closed too. Some sort of office with a sign like LYGGITEEMIT on the outside. It's open. It looks like a restaurant, with one guy in there working on a computer. A chubby native woman sits behind a terminal.

Can I get breakfast? I ask.

“Until ten o'clock,” comes the answer.

“What time is it now?” I ask.

The woman stares through me. I pull my phone out and check the time: 10:26. The pain in my bladder increases. I leave. I pass a several named buildings that start with the letter P. I remember that the town's supermarket (there is one) starts with P... I try the door. One opens.

It's a kind of convenience store with some supplies for the cold and some Dorito-like snacks. I speak to the woman behind the counter in bad Danish. I translate here for those few readers who don't speak bad Danish.

“Is there a restaurant near here?” I ask.

“There's one down the street,” she replies.

“Is it open now?” I ask.

She stops, seeks guidance from God and answers, “No, it isn't.”

“Where can I get something to eat?” I ask. “Maybe a shop that sells wienerbrod.”

She nods and gives me detailed instructions in Danish. I understand about a third of what she's saying. I think she's directing me to the supermarket. Meanwhile, the pressure in my bladder builds. I thank her and leave. On the way out I see another door. A toilet? I try the handle. It's locked.

FLASH AHEAD TO THE FERRY FROM DISKO ISLAND BACK TO ASSIAAT: No whales, but several beautiful icebergs. I was in Qeqertarsuaq a day and a half. No aurora. No dogsled. A couple spectacular meals... a lot of shit.

Here's an iceberg while you're waiting. It's hard to get a sense of scale, though. Figure it's as tall as a 20 story building.... and they say it's only one seventh above water. 

FLASH BACK TO AARHUS

Pedro works in a home for retarded criminals. What better job for a punk rocker? But it gets even better. Denmark, being a civilized country, uses jails to rehabilitate not to punish. So, what do you do to help the inmates? You ask them what THEY want... to make their lives better... how to let them function in society so they won't get in trouble again... This would never occur to Americans who believe that torture is the way to handle transgressors.

It turns out in Aarhus, several of convicts want to make music. What better music for the aggressive retarded than PUNKROCK? Yes! With Pedro's help, they put together a band. Here's a video.

I have since found there are several other bands... one in Finland, one (the most famous, called HEAVY LOAD) in England. It's a genre, that I immediately christen: TARDCORE.

In the 1980s, there was an American fanzine made by a Mongoloid. I read about it in Maximum Rock'n'Roll. The zine was called TARD. It was exhilerating to be so direct... so non-PC... so punk. I wrote for a copy, but never got one. (If you have one and are willing to copy it... or have any information on it, email it to me at god@mykelboard.com.)

Lately, I've beenso inspired by Pedro's work and the bands he introduced me to, that I'd love to start a network... a series of venues... that specialize in Tardcore bands. Right now, this is a side project, but anyone interested, please contact me and we can get the ball rolling. Oh yeah!

Speaking of Tardcore... Pedro has asked me if I could record a cover version of BEER with his band THE CLEAN BOYS. I've done this song so much, with so many different bands, it should be easy, right? Yeah right. I'm senile... I forget the words.

Sid Yiddish has a copy. He sends it to me and I immediately go about remembering the lyrics with all kinds of mnemonics. A beer will always give you good head. It goes down easy in bed. The label comes off with no fight. It never says “headache tonight.” Okay, I picture the label as a huge blanket on the bed, and a corpse... headless... lying bloody on the blanket... nah, that won't do it. I'll work on it.

Meanwhile, in Aarhus, Pedro talks about a guy named Ut. Strange name... though there was a band with that name in New York in the 80s. My old band, ART, was often confused with them. UT was all girls, as I remember... and they could actually play their instruments. Much different from us.

So, it's Pedro's day off., we're going with Ut to meet his (Ut's) friends in the countryside. Pedro drives... first to pick up Ut, then to Graceland. I shit you not. 

 

It's in Randers rather than Memphis (though the place calls itself Memphis). It's an augmented-reality copy of the original Elvis home. Through hidden speakers, In The Ghetto welcomes you to the place. There's a statue of The King himself in front, and a huge gift-shop as you walk in.

My sister is such an E.P. fan, that she named her daughter Presley. I've got to find something small but relevant as a gift for her. What a terrific souvenir from Denmark... something Elvis.

Ut, Pedro and I enter the gift-shop. Hundreds of records, CDs, Elvis beer, Elvis combs, Elvis condoms. Oh yeah.

“I've heard about this place for a long time,” Ut tells me, “but I've never been here. It would take something really special to get me to enter this kitchy place. You did it Mykel. But I don't see any Elvis Hitler CDs.”

I smile.

After Graceland, we go to an old hippie farm to meet some of Ut's friends. The distance from Graceland to the farm is short in space, but very long in time... about 45 years... backwards.

At the farmhouse, Pedro introduces himself and me to Ut's friends... people my age... with more flannel than a pajama factory. There is a real record on the real record player. It's not punkrock... but folk music. American folk music from the 1960s.. The Weavers.

There are a few other sixties albums... mostly soft... I think they played Country Joe and the Fish. There were several albums... maybe Ut brought them... that no one had ever seen before.

“See,” says Pedro, “he really is Ut.”

“Okay,” I say, “now, I'm really going to ask. What the hell does Ut mean?”

The whole crew looks at me with wrinkled foreheads and noses.

“It's an English word,” says Pedro. “You know it. It means strange, weird, unusual... UT.”

“Holy shit,” I say. “You mean ODD?”

Pedro nods. “That's what I said: UT.”

On the farm, we take a tour of the land, share some very 1960s vegetation, then pack off. We drop ODD off, pick up Morks and Frugie and head for the studio.

The four of us drive to a studio someplace also in the countryside. It's a live-in studio, where you can work on a record for days in a row, without traveling... eat-sleep-shit-piss-record. A great way to make a record. I hear my friends in MDC stayed there when they were in Denmark.

Frugie, a big blond tattooed, jolly guy... is the drummer and youngest of our group. He may not be out of his twenties... let along his forties... or fifties... like the rest of us. He has no smartphone, no facebook page... he's the least techie of all of us.

Morks is the guitarist and engineer. He's a Polish-Dane with great technical skill and an artist daughter who's proud her dad is a punk rocker. Morks sets up the mics, and gets the sound levels. Then the rehearsal starts. I just hope I've got the BEER lyrics in the right order.

“Hey guys,” says Frugie [Note: everybody speaks English... even to each other... for my benefit. It doesn't help my Danish, but it sure is considerate.], “let's forget the cover version. Let's make a completely new song.”

I'm flummoxed.

“It takes a month to write a song,” I say. “I gotta come up with lyrics. You gotta come up with music. Then we have to make 'em fit. I can't stay here a month.”

Pedro laughs.

“It's punkrock, Mykel,” he says.

I shrug, pull out my notebook and start scribbling lyrics. The name of the song? It's punkrock.

In the meantime, the gang is working on a suitable tune. They're working by themselves, having no idea what my lyrics are. I have no idea what my lyrics are.

When they're finished... maybe an hour or so... I “sing” along with what I have and everything matches perfectly... yeah, right.

Make that several hours.

Finally, after writing the lyrics in ever-bigger print... smoothing out a few chord changes... cutting a measure here... a measure there. We get it. As often with my songs, this one ends in a little story, the last line of which is BEND OVER BOY.

So, THE BEND OVER BOYS becomes the instant name of our band. Quick! A publicity photo:

--to be continued

FINAL NOTE:

Pedro has provided several TARDCORE references for me. I think you'll agree how great they are. Here's his list:

=======================================================

John D Band | Facebook www.facebook.com John D Band, Harlev, Arhus, Denmark. 310 likes · 6 talking about this. Handicap garage-rock band fra Østjylland! Opkaldt efter en flot grøn traktor ;)

Video: https://youtu.be/_xSzID-sBe8

John D Band - FEE FEST - offcial video 2015 youtu.be "Fee Fest" med handicap garagerock orkester "John D Band" Text & musik - John D Band - fra CD'en "Harlev rødderne kører uden airbag" produceret af fede Frede...

Pertti Kurikan Nimipäivät (Finland)

Video:

https://youtu.be/v4Y0HOPL5GU

Pertti Kurikan Nimipäivät - Aina Mun Pitää (Finland) - LIVE at Eurovision 2015: Semi-Final 1 youtu.be Live performance in the first Semi-Final of Aina Mun Pitää representing Finland at the 2015 Eurovision Song Contest.

Heavy Load (UK)
Video: https://youtu.be/fiEfkNtpYCM

That's Not My Name - Heavy Load youtu.be Heavy Load's first single off the third album 'WHAM' - a cover of The Ting Ting's hit single changed to deal with disability hate crime. Featuring guest appe...

http://www.disabledinfo.co.uk/dis/1945-the-story-of-wild-things.asp

The story of Wild Things - DisabledInfo.co.uk www.disabledinfo.co.uk Heavy Load's Wild Things project - showcasing the work of musicians with learning disabilities from all over the world. The story of Wild Things

The "Stay up late" campain started byHeavy Load:
https://www.facebook.com/StayUpLateUK/?fref=ts

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Notes:

If, for some reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

You can also subscribe to my writings (get email when something new is posted), by sending a subscribe email to: readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.

The Other Side (of the Arctic Circle) or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 6

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Sixth Entry:
Nuuk & Seamen

by Mykel Board

] start this sitting in the SEAMAN'S HOUSE in Nuuk, Greenland. I feel a bit strange, spending time in Seamen's House... especially after my exciting visit to the Penis Museum in Rekyavik. Nuuk, Penis, Seamen, it's a bit much, don't you think?

Luckily, I have no internet connection here. I could pay 200DKR ($33) for half an hour... like I'm gonna do that and betray my race. Besides, having no internet encourages me to write, rather than spew about Hillary Clinton on facebook.

I look out the window and see stacks of shipping containers, a rather large ship (the one I'm going to take?), a half circle of snow-dusted mountains, a small road that leads to the end of the port. In the cafe here, a few glass fish hang from the ceiling, a few employees: (one of them Greenlandic, I think), several with Danish accents. One girl I said hello to in Thai...turns out she's Filipina, lots of smiles, and the Orientals who look Japanese... but are the natives here. They converse in Greenlandic which... as it should... sounds a bit like Mongolian.

It's cold outside. (Waddaya expect, this is Green-fuckin'-land!) I had an interesting day in Nuuk yesterday... Mostly hung out at ATLANTIC RECORDS... Met Marianne, the Danish proprietress. (What is it with the name Marianne? Does just having that name make people into Super-nice Superstars?)

 

And I also met the bass player from one of the most popular Rock bands in Greenland, called (what else?) NANOOK.

The store is a combination instrument, CD, and music supply store. Right now, there's this big bearded Danish-looking guy and his girlfriend looking at basses. He buys a fender. Marianne helps lug it to the counter. The guy comes up to me... He's even bigger than I thought. He stands directly in front of me. If I walked forward... without leaning... I could bite one of his nipples. I don't.

“I heard you speaking English before,” he says to me with a perfect American accent. “Where are you from?”

“New York,” I tell him. “And you...”

“Virginia,” he says. “I grew up in Richmond.”

“Do you know GWAR?” I ask.

He laughs. “I used to live right next to 'em. One of 'em stole a guitar from me.”

I knit my eyebrows in a huh?

“Well, not exactly stole,” he says. “But borrowed, and then repainted the body... oil paint over water color. Wrecked it completely. So sticky I couldn't play it.”

“For me, sticky is an invitation to play,” I don't say.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I tell him. “I stayed with Gwar once... in Richmond in the 80s. There were body parts hanging all the place. I loved it.”

“I hope it wasn't sticky,” he said.

There's plenty more to tell about my first day in Greenland. Maybe I'll get back to it. But now I want to...

FLASHBACK TO DENMARK:

I've just left Copenhagen... great time there. My last night was spent eating pizza. Yeah, I know... I go to Denmark to eat pizza. But this is hoity toidy pizza... $20+ personal pizza in all kinds of exotic tastes... No, they don't have Rødgrød med Fløde flavor, but they do have chocolate and some other stuff I can't remember. They were things that would get those anything-but-anchovies pizza wimps to whistle a different tune.

I ate with two pals-- Simon & Peter-- I've known since last century! (I've known ALL my Copenhagen friends since last century.) We waxed (or waned, I'm not sure which is more appropriate) nostalgic about people we knew... who've since gone to that great wienerbrod in the sky.

FLASH AHEAD: I'm riding on Eurolines, the Megabus of Denmark. (I'm not sure if they operate in other countries.) It cost 100Dkr (about $15) to get to Aarhus from Copenhagen. The train is 4 times that. Unlike the real Megabus, Eurolines does not require masochism for transportation. They have more legroom than a train's first class and wifi that actually works. They travel even if a seat... or twenty seats... are empty. You get electrical sockets... everything you need... except toilet paper. That's their singular fault. BYOT

Oh yeah, another fault with Danish long-distance buses... whatever the company: there's no bus station in Copenhagen. Is there another capital city in the world with no bus station? There's a bus station in Banjul!

Here, you just walk up to a bus-waiting street and run around... checking all the buses until you see the LINE you want going to the PLACE you want. It's the same in NYC, but in NYC there is a bus station.... only the cheap buses just don't use it. In Copenhagen... there's no station at all.

I find my bus, and get in... it's 2/3 empty. Oh yeah!

I'm going to Aarhus to meet some old friends and make some new ones. First there's the notorious JOHNNY CONCRETE. I still remember meeting him in the 80s. A big guy... met in a club where I went to see his band... DREAM POLICE (though maybe it had a different name then).

ETHNOGRAPHIC NOTE: The Danes-- like the Japanese-- are delicate in their eating and drinking habits. They'll use a fork and knife to eat a hamburger. When drinking from a bottle, they'll put just the lower edge into their mouth and gently pour the contents in. They are not like Americans who suck down to the neck and guzzle it out.

So it's 1983 or so. I'm in an Aarhus club, guzzling a beer in the American way. A loud, already raspy voice comes from somewhere close-by... in English.

“That's not how you drink a beer,” it says. “It isn't a penis.”

“Too bad,” I answer.

Johnny Concrete and I have had our first conversation.

Then, there's Steen, singer/guitar player for THE ZERO BOYS. I liked his band so much I put them on the WORLD CLASS PUNK cassette (later CD) I produced for ROIR in 1984. A big guy, he's joined us at DRINK CLUB in New York a couple times. He's got a great laugh and is friendlier than a Thai prostitute.

Now, I hear, he's in an old-punks band called the SNOTTY PUNK BAND, with Johnny Concrete. Oh yeah!

Finally, there is Pedro and friends... THE CLEAN BOYS. We haven't met in person, but thanks to facebook, SID YIDDISH... and GG ALLIN, we have a history.

Here's the story:

Pedro discovers GG Allin in some German record store. It's the split LP with ARTLESS. He falls in love with GG. Unable to contact him due to his (GG's, not Pedro's) being dead... he searches YouTube for me. What he finds is Sid's version of Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer. So he contacts Sid. It's all facebook hill from there.

The bus arrives in Aarhus (pronounce OR-HOOS by the Copenhageners and AH-HOOS by the locals). I'm supposed to meet Pedro at the bus station. (Yes, there is one in Aarhus.) The bus is as punctual as a Japanese businessman. Pedro is not....

Not that I know it right off. I only know him from his facebook picture... and a few shots that Sid took. He could be anybody... I'll have to guess. I go into a cafe by the bus station, get a hotdog and message Pedro on facebook.... no answer. I sit down and write a bit... connect to facebook, text again. No answer.

Outside is 30-ish, slightly chubby, clean-shaven guy with chipmunk cheeks. He's looking around-- for me, I guess. I leave my computer... run to the door... wave,,,,jump up and down... point to myself... make faces. The guy frowns. His eyes widen... like all 5' 3” of me is going to attack him and... I dunno... bite his leg... I guess this isn't Pedro.

I see another guy, bearded, around the same age as the first guy... scruffy in the best sense of the word... reminds me of Harris of Letch Patrol. I go to the cafe door in a more subtle way this time. I lean against the doorjamb... sort of slinky... like James Dean without a cigarette. I'm trying to look like Lou Reed... before he died. I cough loudly once or twice. The guy looks up at me.

“Mykel?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I've been trying to facebook you forever.”

“I don't have a smartphone,” he says. “I can't get facebook messages.”

I give him a big hug... like we've known each other for years... And the Aarhus adventure begins. Here's a picture of Pedro and me on our quest to satisfy the OTHER Danish food must.. WIENDERBROD. In America, we call it a DANISH.

I get in his car and he drives out of town... down a country road... past a sign with an arrow that says NOWHERE: CENTER... THIS WAY. We take a small dirt road off the little road. We're not headed for the middle of Nowhere. We're going to the Nowhere suburbs.

A few old farmhouses cluster around a courtyard.

“Home,” says Pedro.

I take my bags out of the trunk. Pedro helps me bring them inside. I settle in Pedro's girlfriend, Camilla's, room.

“I guess she's going to stay in your room,” I say with a wink in my voice.

“She's in the hospital... in Copenhagen... having a pancreas transplant,” he answers.

Boy, do I feel like shit. Pedro... doesn't even notice it.

More on the wild times with Pedro in a later blog

TEASER: Somewhere there exists a recording of IT'S PUNK ROCK by The Bend Over Boys. It may eventually see light as a 7”. I'll keep you informed. In the meantime, check out The Clean Boys on YouTube and on facebook.

In the future, you'll read more about my Aarhus adventures. I'll leave you with a picture of me with THE SNOTTY PUNK BAND... featuring both Steen and Johnny Concrete... Pretty sexy, huh? You know what you have in store.

--To Be Continued

[Extra note: In order to catch up, from now on I'm working haphazardly in time, trying to get in as much as I can before my ever-more senile mind loses.... er... what was I going to say?

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

NOT SLEEPING IN IT: Mykel's Caribbean Blog CHAPTER EIGHT

by Mykel Board

ENTRY EIGHT

October 26, 2013- Nov. 3, 2013

[Recap: From the start, it didn't look good for this trip. Everything went right... always a bad sign. Nothing portends disaster more than everything going right.

Easy subletter in New York, smooth flight to Miami, promises of “meet you at the airport/seaport” for the whole trip. $10 a night accommodations in Guyana, the rest free.

Uh oh! Too good. The better the news, the bigger the fall later. And things get worse. (Better) The Miami trip goes so smoothly you could cry.

Then on to Trinidad, where my friends pick me up at the airport, take me around drinkin'.Then I moved South, some fun adventures, a Goddess... er... Empress of a girl. Back to the airport and the flight to Guyana.

One thing after another... clicking into place. It's sort of like a Bingo game in reverse. Only when you do NOT get the blocks in a row can you call BINGO. If things come together in a straight line, one after the other, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, that's normal. That's losing. When things DON'T click... when they DON'T work out. That's BINGO.

In Guyana, my facebook friends from KEEP YOUR DAY JOB! meet me at the airport. From there, we go to Jamal's place. This is the only time have to pay for a place to sleep: 15 days for $150US. Not bad. No it doesn't go smoothly. But it goes, and I meet some great people in the country. My trip to Kaiteur Falls is amazing.

I spend much of my time in Guyana with Gavin and Ryan. They meet me at the airport, take me to rock'n'roll karaoke, get me drunk. The plan is to stay here until October 26, then head with the band to Suriname. They'll be the only punkband in a metal festival. I'll roadie or do merch. It'll get me over to the next country with company and it'll be PUNKROCK.

The two weeks of my stay in Guyana are adventure-filled, and beer-dulled. Then the band develops a drummer problem. Two drummers agreed to go with them. One a close friend, the other more PUNKROCK. They ditch the friend for the punkrock drummer. He bails at the last minute. The now former-friend does not answer emails. I cannot play drums. This cannot work out. We go anyway. It works out.

After the big show, Jose, our host, takes us on a tour of the city. He points out some exploding neon stars/snowflakes and explains that's where the brothels are. I explain my preference for stripclubs over brothels. He laughs.]

I stay with Gavin and Ryan at the rockstar motel the night after the big show. Gavin is so heated up by the success that he half finishes the bottle of Jack... right from the bottle.

“I need the coolest place in the room,” he says, stumbling.

Somehow, Ryan gets him out and they sleep.

The morning after the BIG SHOW, though, Gavin starts the day with a cough. The cure? A slug of Jack Daniels, right from the bottle, of course.Gavin's not 23 yet, and he's already on his way to full-fledged alkiedom! When I was his age I couldn't drink a six pack without waking up in my own vomit.

Yeah! That boy has a future!

For their last day in town, Gavin and Ryan have lined up a radio interview and another acoustic set. The former is at the studios of a local station. The latter is at Unkies House of Blues, right next to the venue of the big show last time. The band invites me to both.

I haven't been in a radio station since I did an interview in Australia at the turn of the century. Back then, DJs used CD players... and even vinyl turntables. For this interview, Gavin emailed the DJ a playlist. The DJ downloaded the songs, and BANG! ready for airtime, right?

FLASH AHEAD:

“We need to be at the studio by seven,” says Gavin.

“What time is it now?” I ask.

“Just past 8,” he says.

Are we late? Are you kidding? This is Keep Your Day Job Exclamation Point. For them, time, money, commitments, planning. None of it matters. Everything just works out.

We take a cab to the station. The driver finds it easily.

DJ: So what does Keep Your Day Job mean?

Gavin: It's Keep Your Day Job Exclamation Point.

DJ: Sorry.

Gavin: Actually, the meaning has changed. Originally is was what people said to us when we were just starting out. You know, Forget about playing this music stuff. You suck! Then, after a while the meaning changed. It began to be a message from US to the AUDIENCE. YOU keep your day jobs. We'll be punk rockers and live the life you WISH you could live.

DJ: So neither of you have day jobs?

Gavin: That's right.

DJ: And you, Ryan. (to the microphone) He's the quiet one. Do you have a day job?

Ryan shakes his head.

DJ: They can't hear you shake your head.

Me: I have a day job.

Gavin: That's our friend Mykel, talking.

The DJ ignores me.

DJ: So, what is punk rock anyway?

Gavin: Punk rock is about doing what you want. Not following rules. Living for yourself, not some boss who only makes money from you.

DJ: Ryan what do you think?... By the way, I used to be shy too. I couldn't talk to anyone at parties or in groups. I was like that. Just like you.

Gavin: Play that song then.

He does. It's obvious that this DJ, though a nice guy, doesn't have a clue about the band-- or punkrock in general. Suriname has it's own kind of music... dance music, of course... this is the Caribbean, after all... but this guy should at least do his homework. Read the Wikipedia page,or SOMETHING. He seems at a loss to ask any music related questions, You like The Ramones? and just needs SOMETHING to talk about.

The song is over.

DJ: So, we're here in the studio with Gavin and Ryan from Keep Your Day Job...

Gavin raises his eyebrows.

DJ: That's Keep Your Day Job Exclamation Point.

Gavin smiles.

DJ: So guys, do you have girlfriends? Wives?

Gavin: My girlfriend is my music?

DJ: And you Ryan?

Ryan: Me too.

DJ: No girlfriends?

And he goes on about the unfortunate condition of not having a girlfriend, just skirting the issue of what that really means to not have a girlfriend.

Er... what year is this?

From the radio station, it's off to the Accoustic Set® at Unkies.

One of the things I've learned in the tropics is that night and day are reversed from the more temperate zones. In New York bars stay open 'til 4AM. For most of America, that's very late. Most cities have earlier closing times, 2AM or even Midnight. People have to get up in the morning. Go to their day jobs. We wouldn't want them performing inefficiently, would we?

In the tropics, people STOP working in the afternoon. It's just too hot (or too rainy) to do anything. It's naptime, siesta. Sleep trumps work. The way it should be. And night-- real night: 10 PM to Sunrise-- That's when you LIVE!

It's about 10, when we get to the bar. Jose is there already, as is my new friend, Jeffry (a Dutch guy of Surinamese origin)... and Spit. I buy Parbo for the crew.

KYDJ! have no guitars with them. Accapella as well as acoustic? The bartender digs up a single guitar and hands it to Gavin.

Gavin starts playing. Ahh we know that tune. Jeffry starts on the vocals, nodding his head in time to the music:

They're forming in a straight line

They're going through a tight wind

Pretty soon Jose and I pick it up:

The kids are losing their minds

Blitzkrieg Bop

It's not long before everyone sitting outside joins in:

Hey ho, let's go

Shoot 'em in the back now

What they want, I don't know

All revved up and ready to go

Gavin hands the guitar to Jose.

As the only white guy there, I feel like I can ask for it.

“Play Kill All De White Man,” I say.

He starts strumming.

“The white man call himself civilized,” he sings with a strong Carib accent, “Cause he know how to take over. De white man come to pillage my village. Now he tell me I have to bend over.”

I join in on the chorus:

Oh yeah, kill all the white man,

Oh yeah, kill all the white man,

Soon the whole bar is singing:

Oh yeah, kill all the white man,

Oh yeah, kill all the white man,

It's a punk rock hootenany.

In case you're not familiar with the tune. Here it is, performed by the originals. I only wish I had a video of US doing it.

 

I do have a video of US doing BEER IS BETTER THAN GIRLS ARE... Maybe it'll be a hit.

The rest of the night continues the sing-a-long with the guitar passed around like a spliff. The beer flows, the night wears on.

Most of the songs were too recent for me... from this millennium. But I gamely tried to keep up. Only Jeffry seems to know them all.

After the hootenany, we all (me, Gavin, Ryan, Jeffry, and, of course, Jose) pack into Jose's car.

“Guess where we're going?” says Jose... and he takes off. Stopping in front of one of those buildings with an neon exploding star.

We go in and sit at the bar. There are a lot of attractive girls standing around. There's a dancefloor with a pole and some moving lights flashing over it. No one is on it.

We each order a beer.

Next to the dancefloor, a thin half-bald, man dances by himself. He wears a black and white blazer. On the blazer are some kind of Asian figures. He holds a cane, with a shiny metal ball on top.

A very tall, very black, very sexy woman catches my eye. She's wearing a very tight dress, as black as she is. I smile. She walks over to me.

“Ik sprichk geen Nederlands (I don't speak Dutch),” I say to her.

“Sorry,” she says, “I don't speak Dutch.”

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“I'm from Antigua,” she answers.

I nod as if I know where Antigua is.

I'm feeling my Parbo and doubt I could function even if the guys were willing to wait for me. A minor tragedy. I raise my glass and toast the girl, giving her a sorry, not tonight smile. She walks away.

The only one dancing in the crowded club is the guy with the cane. Not what I came to see. I want girls shaking their body parts. Poles to hold on to and slide up and down.

There is one blond girl among the working women. I'm guessing she's Eastern European... or blonde Brazilian. Jeffry's interested in her. She can see it and she walks over to him.

I don't remember much more about the night. We went to another place where there were fewer girls... and not as good-looking. Then we went to Jeffry's

Sorry, I don't remember going back that night. I remember awakening sometime the next day, at Jose's place. I'm alone in bed, and not spleeping in my own vomit.

The next day, I return, hungover, to wish Gavin and Ryan a safe trip back to Georgetown.

Gavin wants a farewell picture with the headlining metal band: DISQUIET.

We say good-bye and I'm on my own... or really on Jose's own.

That night is Jeffry's farewell party. He's going back to Holland. The night starts by the OLD FORT... a landmark in Suriname.

Jose and I meet Jeffry and a bunch of mostly Dutch friends he's met since he got here.

[NOTE: I never met anyone who collected friends so fast as Jeffry. Mr. Niceguy. Mr. Smartguy. Mr. Punkrock Encyclopedia. It's amazing. This guy, of indeterminate race and nationality, could go anywhere in the world. BANG! A friend collection... he should teach a course on it.]

After dinner, theirs... not ours. (Jose's mom cooked for us earlier), we go to a bar for drinks. You guessed it UNCKIES HOUSE OF BLUES.

After a bit of hootenanny, most of the crowd goes home. Those of us left, go to Jefrey's hotel room for a farewell drink or three.

Sometime later, Jose and I are back at Jose's house.

He's a busy guy. He's a student. He works in concert arrangements. His car is falling apart. He's got insomnia. And now he's got me.

[NOTE: I'll have more details about Suriname in my next blog entry... in a Flashback. So now let's skip ahead to where I'm just leaving the country.]

Jose's mom has been making calls for me. She's checking on the best way to get to Albina, the port city for the ferry to French Guiana.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” says Jose's mom.

“The good news,” I say.

“The bus to Albina (port for the ferry to Frenach Guiana) will only cost 10SRD,” she says. “And then you can take a small boat across the river for another ten.”

“And the bad news?” I ask.

“You'll have to get up at 4AM to get the bus,” she tells me.

“You can take a taxi,” says Jose's dad. “It'll cost more, but at least you'll know who you're sitting with. There won't be a bush woman with ten kids and chickens... and it'll pick you up here.”

“What time does that one leave?” I ask.

“I'll call for you,” offers mom. “What time do you want to leave?”

“Well, I hate to get up early,” I tell her. “But I don't want to arrive in Guiana too late. My friends will be back at work at 2PM, so how about 10AM?”

She nods and makes the call. After some Dutch conversation, she hangs up.

“The taxi will pick you up here...” she says, “at 8 o'clock... Still it's better than 4 o'clock.”

I decide to take it.

One more check of the guidebook: On entering French Guiana, it says, you must have a ticket out of the country. A ticket out of another Caribbean country is not enough.

Shit!

I arrive at Surinamese customs at 11:30. The ferry leaves at three. I can't take the small boats because the ferry is the only way I can get a return ticket. The small boats you pay in cash... no return, no tickets at all.

I hang out in the customs shed until 1PM. Then I ask the customs officer where I buy the ticket to the ferry.

“On the ferry,” he says. “You pay on the ferry.”

“On the ferry?” I don't ask. “On the fuckin' ferry? That means no tickets. No return. Nothing. I might as well take my chances in one of those banana boats.”

I pick up my bags and head for the dock. Sure enough, there's a banana boat.

The “captain” sees me with my bags and points to the other side of the river. I nod. Maybe I can get a discount if I travel with bananas.

Nope. He gestures a phone call, then pulls out his cellphone.

In the meantime, another boat pulls up. This one is even smaller than the banana boat, though there is some kind of covering.

Other passengers have joined me on the concrete jetty. They take the first boat. I wait as someone in the distance comes to pick me up. There is already someone else on the boat. As I stumble onto the small boat, I hit my backpack on the roof... I go low and duckwalk into the low covered part.

The “captain” of this boat looks younger than my 16-year old nephew... and just as reckless. I hope he knows where the rocks are.

Another passenger joins us... and we're off. Just us.

The boat sways from side to side, like a (very rough)cradle. One side sinks, the edge dips to the water, then the other side. One of my few virtues is never getting seasick. (Did I jinx it by writing that?)

In less than a quarter hour, we reach French Guiana. I climb over the side of the boat. The “captain” is already out... talking with a friend by another boat... near some palm trees. I open my wallet. There's only a 5 and a 50. I fish some change from my pocket, just scraping together 10 Suriname dollars. I walk over to the young man and hand him the money. He counts it.

“Ten dollars?” he says. “It's fifteen dollars.”

Now comes the BIG MOMENT OF DECISION. I figure I'm being cheated... but is it cheated? I've got more money than these guys... even if I don't have a lot. Yeah, it's racist for there to be white prices and native prices. But racism fits the situation. At least here and now. Okay, he wins. I hand him the 50-- he has change.

I climb the hill to the immigration booth. No return ticket. No visa. Not many Euros. No one else is entering the country at the moment.

A bunch of white guys are hanging out by the immigration windows. They're speaking French. They wear uniforms with the kind of reflective vests that worn by roadcrews to avoid traffic accidents. Instead of CONSTRUCTION, the vests say IMMIGRATION.

I hand my passport to one of the guys. He hands it back to me.

“First you go to that window,” he points to a small bank-teller looking window about two feet away, “then you come here.”

I go to the window, but there is no one behind it. One of the “officers” calls to someone inside. A burly man who needs a shave... or at least a cigar... to complete the look... comes to the window. I slide my passport under the place that looks like I should be sliding dollars.

The man grunts. Opens the passport. Grunts again. Stamps the passport. Slides it back under the bullet proof glass. I return to the other officers. One of them makes a get out of here gesture with the back of his hand.

“Où puis-je obtenir quelque chose à manger?” I ask.

“La bas,” says the gesture man. “deux cent metres a droit o a gauche.”

“Merci,” I say, and walk off onto the streets of the city, with only the vaguest idea of where I'm going.

-end-

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