BELOIT 2017 Just a typical Long Weekend in Boardville

GOT ANY DRUGS?

or Mykel's 45^th 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 45^th 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 10^th 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

The $300 Nap: Part II

The smell of rotting garbage fills my nose. I feel slightly nauseous, like you might feel when you read American polical news.

My chest and belly itch from peeling skin and more mosquito bites than skin surface. Venezuelan food... what's the technical term... sucks. Imagine if everything were served on under-baked gritty Thomas's English muffins. Your choice of fillings: sour cheese, tasting like Elmer's glue, or carne mecharne... pulled meat barely spiced with something a combination of honey and Heinz catsup.

It's not that the diet is unvaried. There's lots of choice. You have the bland arepas. The too sweet, pancake-like cachapa:

With your choice of fillings, all equally nauseating. There are tons of other local dishes... all bad.

I'm a pretty adventurous eater. There's not much I don't down with gusto. Snake, guinea pig, piranha. You name it. I've eaten it.

But right now, my appetite is on the corner of Bleecker and Houston St. Left home to lighten the load.

The trouble is, my host mom, cooks me breakfast. Two arepas every morning. One cheese. One meat. This morning, I had to sneak half the meat one with me into the bathroom. Down the toilet. I grunted a bit to camouflage the move. I just couldn't bear it.

I wonder if I'll lose weight here, eating 1 meal a day. Maybe I'll gain weight, since I'm not getting any exercise other than walking with my computer.

******

I continue the next day. September 1. Labor Day in theU.S.

I sit and write, trapped. My host family is gone to I donno where. Because of security here you need a key to get in and out. A key... what am I talking about? Five. Ten. Dozens.

To leave the apartment building and complex you need:

1. A key to the apartment door (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

2. A key to the metal gate just outside the door. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

1. A key to the gate protecting the alcove of 2 apartments on the left side of the elevator. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

2. An electronic key to in order to operate the elevator

The key
<--- The elevator panel -->

5.An electronic key to leave the building through the main entrance. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

6. An electronic key to leave the building grounds... It opens the outside gate. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)
7. An electronic key to leave the entire apartment complex. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)
And if there's a fire? I don't want to think about it. It's all electronic! So many things can go wrong with electronics. It's not a simple key in a simple lock. I don't want to think about it.

[Note for non-writers: The two lines above are called foreshadowing. They are strategically placed so that when something happens later, the reader is prepared, or at least has some kind of reference. An oh-yeah-he-mentioned-that-before-now-I-get-it.]

So my hosts are gone. Not home. I'm trapped. Can't leave. They gave me an e-key. It's not enough. I can't get out of the front door, let alone the two gates before the elevator. Okay, I'll just sit here and write. Wait for them to return.

Back to the chronology. Where were we?

Ah yes, going through the glass doors.

SHORT RECAP: I leave Trinidad for Venezuela on three hours sleep. I made an internet reservation for one night in a Caracas hotel. I need the sleep – and I need something to tell immigration. I can't say I'm going to crash on the sofa at the punk house, can I?

Before I leave the Caracas airport, I plan to do four things.

1. Eat lunch.

2. Buy an English-Spanish dictionary (I have so many at home! Forgetting to bring one is like forgetting to bring water on a mountain hike!)

3. Change a little money at the official rate. Probably by using an ATM. The rest, I'll change with the punk rockers in town.

   [ASIDE: I don't remember the details. But there's a section in Catch 22 where a character buys eggs for $3, sells them for $2 and makes a profit. I think about it as I hear the details of the Venezuelan black market.

Here's how it works: If an American changes money at a bank, she gets from 1.95 to 2.1

Bolivars to a U.S. dollar. If she changes it on the black market, she gets 3 Bolivars to a U.S.

dollar. If Venezuelans want to buy dollars, they go to the bank and pay 2.15 Bolivars for one

dollar.

Here's the problem: How do the black marketeers make money? They pay MORE for

illegal dollars than they'd pay legally at the bank. Where's the profit?

Leave your guess as a comment here, and I'll reveal the answer in my next blog entry. ]

4. Buy a SIMS chip for my cellphone, so I can make local calls at lower prices.

After taking care of one through four, I plan to take the bus to the subway in the city, and walk to the hotel.

The plane arrives in Caracas about 8:30AM. I pass through immigration and customs. It's suspiciously easy, if commonly unfriendly. On the way out, I have to walk through a large sliding glass panel. On the other side of the panel are two uniformed men.

One points to me. The other takes my back pack, which I am now rolling.

“You speak English?” he asks.

I nod.

“Where are you going?” he says.

“I'm going to my hotel,” I tell him. “Hotel La Floreta.”

He leads the way, away from the sliding panel. Carrying my bag. Tight grip.

“I want to get money from the bank. From a machine.” I tell him, pegging him for a customs agent, trying to entrap me.

“The machines only give you 1.95 Bolivars for each dollar,” he says. “I give you three por un dollar.”

“I'd rather go to a machine,” I tell him.

He shrugs and grabs my bag tighter.

“Follow me,” he says.

We walk. We walk to the right. To the left. Around in circles. To an isolated machine. He gestures. I go to the machine and insert my card. It spits it back at me.

“It no work,” he says. “We try more.”

We walk. We go downstairs. Across a huge lobby, to a gaggle of machines. He gestures. I walk up to a machine and insert my card. The machine spits it back at me. Another in the same gaggle. Same result. A third. This one works... as all third tries should work.

I withdraw about $100 in Bolivars. Then, I go back to the guy with my bag.

“Ok,” he says. “Now we go to taxi to hotel.”

“I want to take the bus,” I tell him. “I don't want to take a taxi.”

“No buses,” he says. “You go by taxi. 150 Bolivars (about $75).”

“I can't pay 150 Bolivars,” I tell him.

“You change money with me,” he tells me. “I make cheaper. Look,” he pinches his uniform and holds it out from his body. “I am officièl. From the airport. All is okay. Okay?”

Yeah right.

Exhausted, bleary minded, I fish $50 out of my wallet. I give it to him. He counts it and then reaches into his pocket. He gives me 150 Bolivars, counting them carefully into my hand.

“I give you discount taxi,” he says. “For you, 120 Bolivars. I ask my friend.”

For you 120 Bolivars? Where am I? At 47^th Street Photo? Oy vey!

“I don't want to leave yet,” I whine. “I want to buy a dictionary. Un diccionario.”

“No hay bookstore in el airport,” he tells me. “You go Caracas. Hay muchos bookstores en Caracas.”

He grabs my bag and starts walking purposefully toward the exit.

“Wait! Espera por favor!” I yell at his back. “I need to buy a SIMS chip for my telephone.”

I close my eyes for the 0.4 seconds it should take him to tell me I can't buy a SIMS chip in the airport but there are muchos good SIMS chip stores in Caracas. He doesn't tell me that.

“At your service,” he says quickly changing directions, like a soldier in a military parade.

We walk. We go upstairs. Across from the big glass panels, around a huge curving alcove. To a little window marked DIGITAL.

“Aqui,” he says, gesturing toward the window, “se sell SIMS.”

I walk up to the window and ask for a SIMS chip. For the first time, I need to use all the Spanish at my disposal. I'm not well disposed.

[NOTE: from here on, things spoken in Spanish appear in English using italics. That way, the non-Spanish speakers can understand... and my Spanish will appear perfect, rather than the broken- grammar Spanish I actually speak.]

“I'd like to buy a SIMS chip,” I tell the young man behind the counter.

“Show me your phone,” he says.

“It will work,” I assure him. “I've used it all over the world.”

“Show me your phone,” he says again.

I give it to him. He opens it, removes the SIMS chip, puts in a new one and tests it.

“It will work,” he tells me.

“That's what I said, asshole,” I don't tell him.

He fills out the forms and asks for my passport. I hand it to him without bothering to ask why. I just need some sleep. I'll pay for a taxi. Just let me lie down. Close my eyes. Drift off to... to...

“And your address in Venezuela?” says the guy.

I give him the hotel name and address.

“That'll be twenty Bolivars,” he says.

Having bought a SIMS chip in Trinidad, I know the routine. The initial payment is only for the tiny computer chip. If you actually want to USE it, you have to load it up. That costs more.

“How much is one call?” I ask.

“It's different,” he says. “The time you call. The city. The day. Where you call from, Messages. All different. I can't tell you how much.

“Can't you let me sleep?” I don't ask. “Right here. On the floor. Can't you protect me from airport officials? Just for an hour. Let me lie down. A quick nap. I'll be right as a rain forest.”

What I do say is, “Okay. Put 30 Bolivars on the chip.”

He does some things on the computer. I hand him some money. He hands me my phone and a small envelope with the new number written on it.

“Now we go to the taxi,” says the airport guard, pulling my bag along. I run behind him, drifting in and out of a moving sleep.

I vaguely hear his voice through the sleepfog. “120 Bolivars. It's not much. It's far. Caracas is very lejos from the aeropuerto.”

We walk. Around the alcove. Downstairs, through an outside corridor. It's hot. Really hot. Humid. The air as thick as pudding. Briefly, we return inside, then back out to a row of taxis. My captor scouts them.

In a few seconds... minutes?... hours? He finds what he's looking for. A rundown Chevy, circa 1975. Peeling paint. Fenders bent into art.

He waves to the driver. The driver gets out and my jailer talks to him.

I hear Hotel La Floresta, 120 Bolivars. The driver does not smirk. Instead, he opens the back door. The airport official throws in my backpack. I put my computer bag on the floor next to it, and the bottle of duty free rum next to that. Then I climb in next to the driver. He's a very serious-looking blond man, about 40. He wears a crewcut, and dark sunglasses. Looks CIA. We're off.

He drives looking straight ahead. Not a word. Silent like the mafia driver who takes you to the alley where the bullet enters the back of your head. Silent like the general, cigar gripped in his teeth, leads his troops into the valley of death. Silent like the Venezuelan cab driver, dodging traffic like a matador dodges the bull, carries you to your own matador. I fall asleep in the car.

A sudden stop awakens me. Where am I? Have I been kidnapped?

I thought it was in Columbia... or Brazil they kidnap people. This is Venezuela. The new socialism. Oh yeah, I'm at the hotel. Three hours plus 10 minutes of sleep.

I fish out 120 of the 150 Bolivars the airport pirate changed for me. These, I hand to the driver and walk into the hotel. It's a narrow affair, with a small front desk, and a passageway to a larger lobby/open restaurant. I look at the clock on my cellphone. It's 9:30AM.

At the desk sits a man dressed in an old-fashioned bellboy uniform. Green with a bunch of white curlicues. He looks elegant. Like an old-time Latino actor. Square face, thin mustache. A hand-kisser.

I'm too tired to speak English, let alone Spanish.

“Do you English can speak?” I ask the deskclerk.

“Yes,” he says, “how can I help you?”

I give him my name. Tell him I made an internet reservation.

He puts my name in the computer.

“Sorry,” he says, “you don't have a reservation.”

“Of course I do,” I tell him, “I got an email confirmation.”

“Do you have the number?” he asks.

“It's in my computadora.” I tell him.

He suggests I go into the lobby and find it, then he can research the reservation. I go into the lobby, take out my laptop, look for the email message. It's nowhere. Fuck! Maybe I didn't download it. Maybe it's sitting in my Gmail account. Eating up bytes with all the ads for Viagra and imitation Swiss watches.

I try connecting to the internet. I can't. There's WiFi service, but it needs a password. I walk to the front and the elegant clerk gives me the password.

Eventually, I connect. There is no confirmation.

“I can no find it!” I cry to the clerk. “I haven't no sleep. Please, help me.”

He smiles and bows slightly. He types a few things into the computer.

“I can give you a room for only one night,” he says.

“That's great!” I say, remembering that the next night I move to Johnny's. “I only need one night. All I need is a nap. A few hours.”

“The cost is 190 Bolivar a night,” he says.

That's nearly $100!! Plus what I paid to get from the airport. Almost $200 in just a few hours! Fuck it. I need sleep. Every greasy, sweaty polluted pour in my body is calling out for sleep. I hand the guy a credit card.

“Do you need my passport?” I ask him.

“Not yet,” he says. “Later, when you go to your room.”

“I need to go now,” I tell him.

“Your room is not ready yet,” he says. “Come back at one o'clock. It will be ready.”

I think I'm going to die. More than three hours. What am I going to do for more than three hours? Walk in circles? Play Spider solitaire?

Suddenly my phone rings. My cellphone. I've never used it. No one has the number except the guy who sold it to me? Who could be calling?

I answer it.

“Señor Mykel Board?” comes the vaguely familiar voice on the other end.

“Si?” I say.

“Mister Mykel. Where are you?” says the voice.

“I'm in Caracas,” I answer, “at the hotel. Who is this?”

“Don't worry. Your passport is safe,” says the voice. “I have it here at the counter. At the Digital counter, at the airport. When will you come to pick it up?”