Poetry or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 4

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Fourth Entry: Poetry

by Mykel Board

Poetry is like a good beer shit. --Charles Bukowski

A good beer shit IS poetry. – Mykel Board

[This entry was started on my last day in the Faroe Islands. I sit at a cafe near the harbor. It's raining, as it often is in the Faroes. The cafe is nearly full, mostly women and babies... a chubby one of whom (baby, not woman) seems fascinated by me. He looks at me, smiles, drools, looks at me again. It's not happening with the women in the place.

My plane for Copenhagen (transit to Iceland) leaves in about 9 hours. Why am I going back to Copenhagen in order to get to Iceland? I'M STUPID, THAT'S WHY!! Bad planning.

On top of it all, I have a 14 hour layover in Copenhagen... and I can't go into town because I stupidly left the key in the mailbox when I checked out from Marianna's house. So it's 14 hours at the airport with no sleep on top of not much last night.

This is not going to be fun. More later, when my WRITING gets to the Faroes.]

The story continues here:

The book, What Your Poo Is Telling You says that “normal” shitting is from three times a day to three times a week. I don't know about you, but I'm usually a three-a-day guy... punctuated by a bunch of earth-shaking LBH farts that can--- and often do--- wake the dead. That's the fart in my becoming an old fart. When I was younger, my SBDs could clear a building faster than an Olympic applause bomb scare.

My travel shits are different from my usual shits. They maintain a pattern in size and shape as well as frequency. When... er... on the move... my bowel products go from wisps of air, to raisins, to grapes, to fuzzy caterpillars, to potatoes, to never-ending rope twists. Travel with me and you'll get a daily report... just ask my pal Sid Yiddish who's had more than his fill of my shit.

Voice from above: Mykel we've ALL had more than our fill of your shit.

Yeah, right.

This trip has been different. I've maintained my 3-a-day ness... right from the beginning. Sometimes four. Healthy full-bodied cucumbers... right from the start.

It may have something to do with the beer. To the Danes, Beer is food... as well as drink. If you go out, you have a beer. If you have dinner, you have a beer. If you go out for drinks after dinner, you drink beer.

The old Danish custom of snaps (Aquavit) seems to have disappeared. On my first trip to Denmark, in 1972, my new friends taught me how to drink the stuff. (It tastes like very alcoholic liquid rye bread.)

You put a coin in the bottom of a coffee cup. Then fill the cup with coffee until you can't see the coin. Then add snaps until you can see the coin again.

The headquarters of snaps was the city of Aalborg. I made a special trip there to visit the factory and ARTLESS played there in the 1980s.

Since then, the factory closed. I don't even know where they make the stuff anymore... probably China. Now everyone in Denmark drinks beer... always.

In the US, it is a self-imposed rule never to drink before noon. I do it for my digestion, though it doesn't work. In Denmark, I've had to change the rule slightly to: Never drink before noon... someplace in the world.

Where last we left, I was meeting my long-time friend Knud Odde at Peder Oxe-- a famous somewhat hoity toidy place where Oxe does not mean OX, but cow... I think. Knud has invited me and will wind up paying a pretty penny for the whole night.

[Note: Danes are among the most generous people in the world. You'll read about others... and you already met some. It's my favorite country in Europe... but maybe I've said that before.]

Right now, I'm sitting on a bench in front of Peder Oxe with Peter Peter who-- with Knud-- was in THE SODS, one of Denmark's first punk bands... and my first punk contacts in the country (1977).

Since that time, the band evolved into SORT SOL (Black Sun), and then split up... under not very friendly conditions. Two of the members went on to form a new band. Knud has become an internationally famous painter. Peter Peter is a music producer and masters LPs for new bands. Knud and Peter Peter haven't seen each other in twenty years.

Here comes Knud now... walking across the cobblestone square in front of the bench. He doesn't see us yet. Now there's the look of recognition on his face... but I can't tell which of us he sees first. By the time I stand up to give him a hug, he's seen both of us. I brace for acrimony.

I get my hug. Peter Peter gets a fist to the jaw... I lie. It's not a hug, but a very warm two handed hand shake. They say something in Danish... a lot. Jeg kan ikke forstor det. But it's friendly. And I'm thinking YEAH!!! Mykel the match-maker.... the fixer upper. I smile so hard my face hurts. Then I fart... a loud trumpet blast... a Jericho wall knocker-downer. I can feel my face redden. The two former Sods don't seem to notice.

Side note: There are 17 people in the world who are not on facebook. Peter Peter and Knud are two of them. They exchange emails.

Peter does not join us for dinner. He limps home, holding his stoned kidney. Knud and I sit outside the restaurant enjoying the unseasonably warm Danish summer weather. Knud as has been his custom forever, orders wine. I order beer. It's a great meal. Afterwards, we head off to the library. (WTF?)

There's a concert tonight celebrating the opening of the library's new vinyl collection. It's also to celebrate some long-standing Japanese-Danish connection. Knud invited me, I guess, because he knows I lived in Japan... and have had almost as much of a love-affair with that country as I've had with Denmark.

“Nihonjin desuka?” I ask the only Oriental in the place.

He smiles and nods.

We talk Japanese a bit. He tells me where he's from. (I forget.) I tell him about my history in Japan. He compliments me on my Japanese.

[NOTE: In the U.S, Americans expect everybody in the world speaks English. If you don't, it's because you don't WANT to. The Japanese believe they are the only people who can speak Japanese. If you know just a few words, they're amazed and impressed:

SUSHI. “You said sushi! Your Japanese is really good!”]

Then the show starts. First a video of these Danish guys (two of 'em in the band), who were waylaid by a Japanese TV crew, followed around as they discovered Japan, and then had their adventures turned into a YouTube mini-series.

Then the band played:

After the band (long very involved playing with 4 guitars weaving in and out over and under each other), I figure the shows over. I figure wrong.

The librarian takes the microphone:

“We have with us tonight, Mykel Board,” who lived in Japan and experienced the Japanese experimental music scene first hand. Let's welcome him here so he can tell you about it.”

Huh?

Applause.

I get up and stand in front of three or four dozen Danes, and one Japanese guy... all Danish-Japanese music enthusiasts. Can I bullshit my way... completely unprepared? Can I be calm and present the face of authenticity where behind that face is complete ignorance?

Come on! I'm Mykel Fuckin' Board, of course I can. I do.

Dropping the name of every Japanese punk band from the 1980s. Gism, Nuky Pikes, Genbaku Onanes, Hijokaidan, Hanashtari, Lip Cream, Guitar Wolf, SOB. A few well known labels: Alchemy, 666.. a touch of completely made up shit: Manko Sashimi-- the all girl electronic band from Nagasaki, The Baca Vaca, Shin Ketsu... complete bullshit. I've got them eating out the palm of my hand. Five minutes of talking, then applause, then the questions.

“What do you think the relationship of Haijokaidan to modern American noisebands like...” and then some weird name that sounds like a Norse God... or a computer programming language.

Uh oh!

“It may have been a mistake at the time,” I say. “But I did nothing illegal. No classified material was ever kept on my server.”

They didn't get it, but it got me out of the questions... and then it was out with Knud and this local record nerd who pleased me by uttering my favorite words (unless they're spoken by someone with a weapon).

“So you're reallyMykel Board?” he says.

I nod.

“That Swanic Youth record... I have three copies....”

He joins Knud and me as we close a half dozen bars. I get “home” at 5AM. Then I throw up.

The next day... er... the same day, they all get mixed up. But one of the days I go to a weird art opening with Marianne, Malene (I met them together in the 80s), and a bunch of completely non snobby artists... The art features a repeating video of some naked Danish girls hitting tree trunks with other tree parts. It makes a mess, but it's only dirt and leaves... doesn't give me a hard-on.

But it's another night of drinking and more drinking... meeting people... and more drinking. I feel like I'm in the ART FRAT at some State University. A pyramid of beer bottles and a street full of blonds and blondes. Ah, Denmark how I love you.

The next day? The day before? Some day... finally.... the summer house where Marianne makes my Danish dream come true. Here she is in her full Rødgrød glory:

Did we forget something? I don't think so... here comes the fløde.

Oh yeah!!! Then it's on to Århus, recently renamed Aarhus.

--To Be Continued

[Extra note: I'm only on my 3^rd or fourth day in Denmark with this blog, but in reality I'm ready to leave Iceland for Greenland! From now on I may work backwards and meet in the middle. You WILL want to hear about the BEND OVER BOYS... my big adventure in Aarhus. You will.]

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.

The Yawn Ride or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 3

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Third Entry

by Mykel Board

[This entry was started at Copenhagen Airport on September 1, 2016. I'm here waiting for the plane to Bergen, Norway. That's the transit point to Torshavn in the Faroe Islands. The Faroe Islands are between Denmark and Iceland. There are more sheep there than people (like New Zealand). The Faroes are a Danish colony. They use Danish coins. Danes still have a big say in their foreign policy. Local police are trained in Denmark. Most people can speak Danish... but they don't like to. Their language is Faroese. and it's closer to Icelandic than to Danish. They have their own flag, and, I expect, their own postage stamps. You'll here more after my perfectly smooth trip from here to the Youth Hostel where I'm staying.... Yeah, right.

FLASH: My flight was canceled. I shit you not. The gate was posted, I went there, sat to wait. At the “boarding time”... nothing going. I asked one of the few guys sitting at the gate if I was in the right place.

“Right flight,” he says, “but it was canceled. You'll have to fly to Oslo (at first I think he says Moscow), then on to Bergen.”

“But I have a connecting flight in Bergen,” I tell him.

He shrugs.

I run out of the gate and check the departure board. There it is:

Right now I'm on a flight to Stavanger... look it up... I'll tell you the rest later.]

HERE'S THE REAL START OF THE BLOG.

Date August 20, Saturday:

The word is gabe, rhymes with BABE. It's pronounced like the long time newscaster, Gabe Pressmen. (Is he dead?) I guess it's short for Gabriel. In Danish, it means yawn... a big open-mouthed sign of fatigue or boredom.

As I was leaving the plane at Copenhagen airport, I was surprised to overhear a conversation that included the word. But before I tell you more, I need to tell you about Tivoli Gardens.

You could probably guess from the final “i”, Tivoli is not a Danish word. Actually, it's the name of a town in the middle of Italy. But it is also the name of the world's second oldest amusement park: Tivoli Garden. (Number one is also in Denmark.) It's like a slightly more old-world version of Coney Island. Lots of lights, famous rides including some wild roller-coasters, and plenty of tourists

I've only been there once. Not for lack of desire, but other things have pulled me away. It's still a spectacular place and should be nice for controlled thrills So you can guess my surprise when I heard what I thought was a discussion of a new attraction in the garden. The Yawn Ride... if my Danish serves me right.

That's something I can't figure out. Would it be boring? Or maybe YAWN in Danish has the English meaning of WIDE... like a yawning chasm. Maybe it's a ride that springs over a deep ravine.

Ok, keep that in your mind's back closet as Marianne drives me from the airport to her apartment in the middle of Copenhagen. It'll be my private apartment, as she's staying in her summer house. I have the keys, I can come and go as I like, and it's close to a subway station. It's also 4AM, and she's chauffeured me here and needs to get back to her summer house. I tell you that woman is a goddess. AND the day after tomorrow I'll eat the first of my must-eats:

RǾDGRǾD MED FLǾDE!

Today, it's off to see Peter Peter. Peter is one of the first people I met in Copenhagen... after Kim Schumacher. I'll take the Metro to a familiar stop and try out Google maps on the smartphone... first time.

I get off the Metro at Kogns Nytorv. (pronounced “Cohen's New Tour). In the oxymoronic near distance, I hear people screaming and the BOOM BOOM of dance music. If this were an airport, they'd close it in a heartbeat. Terrorist bazooka attack!

I turn on my smart phone and push Google Maps. The phone asks me to shake it. Turning it up and down, side to side, back and forth and the whole thing again.

Got it... I think.

Pulled along by the phone, I'm heading directly for the commotion down the street. I see the buildings are decorated for a special occasion. It is a festive look but I have no idea what the occasion is.

There are certainly a lot of flags. I recognize the white-on-red Danish flag. And there's the red, white, and blue American one. Two guys are holding them... One of them I recognize from a picture in the Norwegian Air magazine. He's the US Ambassador to Denmark. The other... huh, he's holding the Ambassador's hand. Here's a picture after they let go to wave to the crowd. (The guy in the middle is the Ambassador.)

Then, I recognize the rainbow flags. Then, more America: Ms America... or a large-fronted version of her... riding on what looks looks like a parade float.

Then I understand.

GABE RIDE... GAY PRIDE... Oh yeah. It's not about the Tivoli at all. I get it. (But not often enough.)

Google continues to pull me along the parade route. Until I get to Peter's street. I turn and ring the doorbell, expecting no one to be home so close to the chaos.

Above me, a window opens. Peter sticks his head out, sees me and shakes his head.

“Never answer the door. Never answer the door. Never answer the door,” he says both to himself and me. But he's smiling and buzzes me in.

“I'm a cripple,” he tells me after we hug at the apartment door. “I've had this kidney stone for a hundred days.”

“Jeez,” I say. “What's a kidney stone like?”

“It's like being kicked in the balls by an elephant,” he says, slumping onto the couch.

“Never had either experience,” I tell him.

I look around for the long-term girlfriend, Lulu. [You know how when you're friends with someone, and they get a girl/boyfriend... you usually can't stand their choice, And often question their sanity? Not this time. Lulu is great! I love her. She's smart, funny, pretty, adventurous. Absolutely terrific. The only problem with her is that she's not here!!! She's off at the Gabe Ride celebrations!]

“She's not here,” Peter tells me. “Besides, she's not my girlfriend anymore.”

I'm crushed.

“She's my wife,” he says. “For a long time.”

We talk horror movies, our mutual love of Screaming Mad George, what's new in Danish movies... and how-- with a kidney stone-- three drops is a victory.

Then we talk about how members of his old band, The Sods/Sort Sol have become estranged. “I haven't seen any of them for at least ten years... maybe more.”

“I'm going to meet Knud (the bass player) after I visit you,” I tell him. “At a place called Peter Oxe.”

“I know where that is,” he says. “I'll walk you half way and point you in the right direction. But first I want to take some pictures... for Ai.”

Note: Ai is a Japanese friend of mine who lives in New York. Peter met her on his last trip to the city. They got to be good friends... and joked about their future love-life together.

“How bought one showing a nipple?” I suggest. “It's better that one dripping 3 drops.”

“Okay,” he says, “one of us together, one solo-- just for her.”

Sorry gals/guys, I can't find the solo one right now... but Ai has it. Here we are together.

Then it's off to town. Following the now empty parade route. I hope I can find my way on the last half of the walk... I don't have to. Peter goes the entire way with me... and together we sit down in front of the restaurant to reunite with his bandmate... who he hasn't seen for ten years.

--To Be Continued

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.

 

Mykel's Journey To The North: Part Two Day THREE

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Second Entry

by Mykel Board

[This entry was finished up (I hope) on my last day in Denmark proper. It's been two weeks since I posted entry one. I've been busier than a pharmaceutical PR man. A lot of seeing old (amazingly old!) friends and blasting out what's left of my hearing at punkrock shows... and in the studio. I recorded a new song with my new friends and bandmates in THE BEND OVER BOYS. Details MAY come later. Tomorrow, it's Torshavn. To find it, check a detailed map for NOWHERE. It's right in the middle.

For now, we'll return to Kennedy Airport in New York. After a 36 hour delay.]

It makes perfect sense that HELL is a city in Norway. I start this blog in the air of Norwegian Airlines... just left Kennedy Airport-- 38 hours late. (I ain't shittin' ya.) I guess I've flown with at least 50 different airlines in the course of my long and sordid life. My favorite: Royal Jordanian Air. They gave me TWO DINNERS (yeah free) on a trip from London to New York.

Norwegian Air is THE WORST... worse even than Ryan Air... worse that Spirit Air. The first flight was canceled completely... no notice... no text... no nothing until I called the airline and... oh yeah, by the way your flight is canceled. You can read that in the last blog.

So I'm getting ready for the same flight the next day. I leave at 11:30 at night, just like I was supposed to last time. Nice time... cooler and I get into Copenhagen in the afternoon... convenient for Marianne who's meeting me at the airport. Right? Yeah, right.

That flight too is canceled... er... rescheduled to 11AM the next morning. I get in to Copenhagen at half past midnight. I can't expect someone to meet me that late. Okay, I'll take a cab... I text Marianne. She says she'll meet me just the same. Amazing! So I wake up at 5AM... my time.*

(*40 minutes earlier than “real time.” Details in last blog.)

I again go through leaving checklist, return to the airport via the same too-narrow subway... they're running slower at this time in the morning. I guess there are fewer travelers, so fewer subways, right? But why do they stop and sit between stations?

We are delayed because of train traffic ahead. We'll be moving shortly.

Train traffic? It's five in the morning and we're delayed because of train traffic? Okay, I have plenty of time. They plane doesn't leave until 11... yeah, right.

Finally, the train starts again, gets me to Sutphin Blvd (I'm trying a new route), where I switch to the Train-to-the-Plane which continues to the airport... effortlessly... not a glitch in the entire $5 12 minute ride.... transit perfection.

That's it for transit perfection...

So where was I... oh yeah... leaving the AIR TRAIN Terminal One. I again check the AISLE sign. Norwegian Air AISLE H. I head to H, knowing exactly what to expect. I look for some guy in the now-familiar uniform. He's standing in a little booth at the back end of Aisle H.

“Excuse me,” I say, “Could you tell me where...”

“Aisle E,” he says. “Norwegian Air is at Aisle E.”

I nod... trudge off to Aisle E.

There is no one in Aisle E. No lines. No people behind the counters... not even a wrong airline to entice me to a false line. Nothing.

I ask another guard, this one standing a bit closer to my current position.

“Where is the check-in for Norwegian Air?” I ask.

“Check that sign over there,” he says pointing to the AISLE H sign.

I shake my head. “That sign says Aisle H,” I tell him. “The guy in Aisle H says it's in Aisle E.”

“Then check the screens there.” He points to a TV Monitor. “The information should be there.”

I check the monitor. It has my flight... to Copenhagen... listed as leaving at 11AM from gate nine. Unlike the other airlines on the screen, this entry is market--- in red... CHECK-IN CLOSED.

I look for a guy in uniform.

“Excuse me,” I ask him. “Could you tell me why almost all the other check-ins on the monitor are open, but this one says Check-In Closed? What does that mean?”

“It means that the check-in is not open,” he says.

I don't hit him.

“Give it a little while,” he continues. “It will open.”

I head to the food court for breakfast. I haven't had much of an appetite lately, but I should eat something. Ok, here's a Duncan Donuts. Bagel with bacon and cream cheese. I donno, but that just seems WRONG! I'll have a croissant. It's awful.

Then it's back to Aisle H. I know what to expect when I get there... yep, a uniformed guy asking if I want Norwegian Air.

“No,” I tell him, “but I have no choice.”

He doesn't get it, but he sends me to Aisle E again. It's about ten minutes before I find out that the actual check in is Aisle A.

Quicker than it takes to reach the tech support guy when your new TV doesn't connect, I'm at the front of the line. I put my bag on the scale.

“I'm sorry,” says the very non-Norwegian looking (unless Norway has moved to South Asia) check-in clerk. “You are only allowed 20 kilos. Your bag is 22 kilos.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “I'm allowed one check-in bag. It's part of the travel agent deal. Besides I've been delayed 36 hours on this flight. I'll just check this bag.”

“Of course,” she says with a smile that'd make Ilsa She Wolf of the SS seem saintly. “I'll give you a food voucher to take care of your inconvenience. But I can't take your bag here. You'll have to wait on that line.” She points to a line of people that stretches from the counter to somewhere in Brooklyn. She then writes out a voucher and hands it to me.

“Hold on!” I tell her, pulling my bag off the scale. She takes another victim while I open the bag and take out a shirt and wrap it around my waist. Then, a book (one of my self-written books... brought as a trinket for the natives)... that, I put in the pocket of my raincoat. A couple CDs brought for trading for rare shit... in the other pocket. A sweater that I tie around my neck. (Remember this is August in New York.) Dripping sweat, I zip up the bag and put it back on the scale. 20.2 kilos.

“That's okay,” says Isla... with a wink.

Boarding pass in hand, I head for security. Of course, I'm stopped... my hands swabbed, the swab put in the explosive detection machine. I pass the test.

Then on to the gate. It's 9:30. My boarding pass says BOARDING 10:00. In an hour, I get on the plane... Yeah right. At about a half hour late, I decide to take a picture.

I should have waited. It's about 11:45 when I hear Thank you for your patience. We'll now begin board. All people who need help boarding or families with children under 6 can board at this time. By noon, I'm on the plane.

At 1PM the plane still sits on the runway. The pilot is on... perfect American English: “I apologize for the wait,” he says. “A plane ahead of us has had landing gear problems. We're waiting for a truck to tow it off the runway. Then, there are 10 planes ahead of us.”

I shit you not.

Once in the air, I pull out the slick NORWEGIAN AIR magazine. I'm happy to see that there is free wi-fi on board.

No there isn't. “Sorry sir, this flight does not have wifi.”

I don't ask.

After a couple hours in the air, the croissant has begun to wear off. I ask the stewardess (as “Norwegian” as the check-in clerk) for something to eat. I show her the voucher. She frowns and goes somewhere... coming back in a few minutes.

“Sorry sir,” she says, “that voucher can only be used in the airport before you leave. We can't take it for food here.”

“You can't take a Norwegian Air voucher on Norwegian Air?” I ask.

She nods..... excuse me while I strangle the screaming baby in the seat behind me.

Okay, already. You get the idea!

At 3AM I'm in Copenhagen. Marianne is there to pick me up and take me to her apartment... My private apartment for my time here. She's staying with her husband in their summer house. Now, the Northern Adventure^® really begins.

--To Be Continued

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.

Mykel's Journey To The North: Part One Day One

A Log Of The Trip To Greenland

Entry 1

by Mykel Board

When something can go wrong, it will go wrong. --Murphy's Law

Even when nothing can go wrong, it STILL will go wrong. --Board's Law

SUNDAY August 14, 2016 (Trip Day Minus 2)

LOCATION: JFK AIRPORT, TERMINAL EIGHT, the MEDALIST BAR between Gates 4 and 5. TIME 9:30pm

It's like a sportsbar in an airport... expensive... obnoxious patrons... mostly fratboy 20s-30s... the ones who 30 years ago would have called high school punk rockers “faggots.”

They're flag waving Americans, watching the Olympics on the big screen TV. Maybe that's not true. Maybe the audience was a bunch of Jamaicans cheering Usain Bolt. I wasn't there. But whatever it was the crowd was manic... cheering the runners on... someone starts banging on the table. POW! POW! POW! The next table picks it up. POW! POW! POW... On the bar top... POW! POW! POW! Urging the runners on.

Down by Gate One a grandmother, not the least bit interested in Usain Bolt, hears the POW! POW! POW! She dials 9-1-1.

“There's gunfire... here in Kennedy Airport... terminal eight. I hear it down the hall. We need help fast.”

POW! POW! POW! Riot Gear Cops... announcement to all terminals: PLEASE LEAVE THE BUILDING. THERE MAY BE DANGER. YOU ARE REQUESTED TO LEAVE THE TERMINAL IMMEDIATELY.

The cops herd the panic-stricken out of the building. In comes the bomb squad... human armor... guns drawn... ready to kill the shooters. The terminals fill with screams... check-ins stop... flights are canceled... planes on the ground don't leave... the people outside sweating it out in the heat... Hours pass... more flights canceled.

Voices on the loudspeakers talked about an ON-GOING SITUATION... and people should stay calm. This makes more panic.

The panicked populous returns home, flights missed, TVs on to see what happened. Well, nothing happened... Nothing, in a big way.

I don't know about this until....

FLASH TO TUESDAY MORNING 9:30AM: I'm scheduled to leave at 11:30 tonight. I have nothing to do all day. I'm an anxious traveler anyway, despite the amount of traveling I do. Every year, my friends know to expect a call from me... from the airport:

“Could you run over to my apartment? I think I:

A. Forgot to lock it.

B. Forgot to turn off the AC

C. Brushed up against the stove and turned on the gas.

D. All of the above.

Of course, none of that ever happens. This year, I make myself a checklist so I can... like an airline pilot... check off everything one-by-one after I've done it. 

I've even included a “knuckles rapped” remark after locking the door. This way, I'll slam my fist against the door after I've locked it... and the pain will remind me that I have, in fact, locked the door.

One by one, I go through the list, checking everything except DOOR LOCKED. It's 1:30PM... my time.

(Note for people who don't know me very well: All the clocks in my apartment are 40 minutes fast. I do this because the average trip in Manhattan takes 40 minutes. The clock setting lets me teleport. I have to be someplace at 9PM. I leave at 9PM. I'm on time.)

These days, airlines recommend you be at the airport 3 hours early... especially for international flights. That's an 8:30 arrival. The train to Kennedy takes more than the usual 40 minutes... almost an hour more. That means I should leave at 7:30 my time... in six hours. What can I do? I tried to download and print my boarding pass, but I couldn't find it on line. There was a message about “a situation at JFK Airport.”

Check with the airline for further information. says the message.

Ok, I guess I should just go and talk with the Norwegians at the airport. They should be a nice crew... they're practically Danish.

The computer's packed away, and I've read the BBC news twice already on my smartphone. I could dip into my pile of last year's copies of THE NATION, but my brain just isn't up to that.

How bout a nap? I'll sleep for a couple hours then go.

I lie down on my freshly made bed. And I fall asleep... for 20 minutes.... awakening with a start from some nightmare involving a fish. It's 2:10pm. Fuck it. I'll leave anyway... I hate airports but I hate sitting around at home more.

I check the weather in Copenhagen. It's 57^{o .} Wow! Sure beats the 90's. I can take my raincoat and fedora... dress like Mykel Board... oh yeah. So I stuff the raincoat between the suitcase and my small carry-on, put the fedora on my head and leave for the subway.

The subway ride to the airport stinks. The Bleecker Street station is un-airconditioned and the elevator from the street goes to turnstiles that are too narrow for my baggage. I have to slide the bags under then jump over the turnstile like a fare-beater. On the other side waits a cop.... actually not, but it would have made a fucked up story even better!

There's a change of trains at METRO TECH. (What kinda name is Metro Tech? It's not a street... not a building... what is a TECH, for fuck's sake?) The A-train runs in two branches. One goes to LEFFERTS BLVD, the other to the ROCKAWAYS. (Yeah those Rockaways.) Only the Rockaway branch stops at the Airtrain at Howard Beach.

At Howard Beach station is one of those electronic public-private joint ventures. It's an electric advertisement for a bunch of stuff you don't want. Can you say, Bvlgari? If you touch the screen, you can see a subway map with a few options. If you touch the SCHEDULE option, it will lie about trains arriving during the next ten minutes or so.

There are two French girls (both attractive... late 20s), both with suitcases. They're trying to figure out the screen. Unlike print signs that you can just look at for information, with these signs, you have to wait for the information you want to flash... then quickly remember it before the next group of trains flashes. I point to the A-train schedule. The next one says LEFFERTS BLVD.

Cette train va pas à l'aéroport,” I say in my best French. “Il va a Lefferts. Vous avez besoin d'un train a Rockaway.” I stress the WAY in Rockaway, so it'll sound more French.

Merci,” says the taller of the two.

Non problem,” I reply.

In five minutes the next train arrives. Above the window, in flashing red lights is FAR ROCKAWAY.

C'est ici! Celui là!” I tell the girls, motioning to the train. I pull my bag into the train and make sure the girls are following me. They have this cute hard luggage... white with little animals all over it... like something you'd expect to see a Japanese tourist with.

Ow doo you know ziss eeez ze right tren?” the shorter girl asks, tired of my bad French.

I point to the ROCKAWAY sign, then to other passengers in the car with suitcases. They nod as the doors close behind us. Inside the crowded car, they stand next to the door. I stand with them, until the first stop when some seats open up. I sit in one. They move to open seats at the other end of the car, whispering in French something I'm sure that means, “Let's get away from this creep.”

At Howard Beach we switch to the Airtrain. I have to buy another Metrocard because my old-people's card isn't good for the $5 Airtrain. There's an extra $1 fee for the new Metrocard. Here, the turnstiles open flat, like someone had the idea that people might be carrying bags to the airport.

I notice that the French girls are in the same car with me-- at the other end. I wave to them. They pretend they don't see me. We all get off at terminal 1-- the international building.

Now, to find the plane. There is another electronic sign. It lists the airlines in alphabetical order, along with their check-in aisles. Unlike print signs that you can just look at for information, these signs you have to wait for the information you want to flash... then quickly remember it before the next group of airlines flashes.

After a few screens, there it is NORWEGIAN AIR... now where is the aisle listed? Fuck! The sign changed already. I've got to go through the whole alphabet... AIR FRANCE, BELGIAN AIR... blah blah. Finally, got it. NORWEGIAN AIR AISLE H. I head down the letters. Of course, H is the last aisle.

A lot of Orientals are on line-- and it's a huge line. Strange for a Norwegian plane going to Denmark... but this is the modern world. I look for the end of the line, then see a cardboard placard that says CHINA AIR CHECK-IN. Then two guys in red uniforms.

You looking for Norwegian Air?” asks the shorter of the two.

Yep,” I say.

It's in Aisle D,” he says.

But the sign over there...(I point), says Aisle H,” I tell him.

It's Aisle D,” he says. “The usual eleven o'clock flight is here. But that's canceled...”

“What?” I say.

He corrects himself. “Not canceled,” he says. “It's just that the time was changed to 5 o'clock.”

It's now about 4pm. What would've happened if I'd gotten to the airport at a reasonable time for an 11:30 flight? I'd have been 6 hours late.

I run for Aisle D. At the end of the aisle, at a check-in counter with no airline listed, there is a guy with the same kind of uniform as the guys at Aisle H.

Is this the check-in for Norwegian Airlines?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, “for the 5 o'clock flight to London.”

“London?” I say. “I'm going to Copenhagen.”

“That flight is at Aisle H,” he says.

But they sent me here,” I tell him.

“We don't have any information on that flight yet,” he says. “Come back after five and we'll let you know. We'll probably have hotel vouchers for you. But you'll have to go to Aisle H.”

A very proper-looking man stands with his suitcase by the desk. “Is this Premium Check-in?” he asks with an English accent so thick it could exit Europe.

“You're going to London?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “It's bloody terrible about the canceled flights.”

Then he tells me about the chaos two days before. It was the first I'd heard of it.

I sit on the floor, less in protest than in confusion. Next to me do not sit the French girls from the train. They've left this story. But there are some other people frantically poking at their cellphones.

I pull out mine... cellphone, that is. I talk into the Google speaker. “Norwegian Airlines customer service,” I say.

There's the number. Along with a little blue bar that says “private mail for your eyes only.”

Usually, when I get messages with that subject, I figure it's MaryEllen Looking for An Older Man or a Nigerian with a bundle of money he wants me to hold for him. But this one is not.

We're sorry to tell you that your flight has been canceled due to A SITUATION at Kennedy Airport. You are eligible for a full refund or you can reschedule

I try to call, but can't make out the garbled instructions. I push ONE, and some music starts playing. I don't want to talk on the cellphone. The sound quality is so bad on those things I'll never understand anything. But wait, there are some COIN PHONES on the wall over there.

I hang up the cellphone and go over to the coin phones. I dial the 800 number, and in less time than it takes to read the entire Bible, an agent is on the line.

“Norwegian Air how may I help you?” he says in a thick Indian accent.

“I'm calling from the airport,” I tell him. “My flight was canceled and I don't know what to do.”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “There is a very bad connection. Can you tell me again why you're calling?”

“MY FLIGHT WAS CANCELED!” I yell into the phone.

“I understand your flight was canceled. Is that correct?” he asks.

'Yes,” I say.

“Pardon me?” he says.

“YES!” I shout.

I shout my ticket number and “record locator” into the phone. He looks it up.

“You are correct,” he says. “Your flight has been canceled. We can offer you two options. You can reschedule the flight for another time or you can receive a full refund.”

“Can I rebook for tomorrow?” I ask.

“Tomorrow, did you say?” He asks.

“YES!” I shout.

“Please hold,” he says.

In less time than it takes to build the Second Avenue Subway, he's back on the line.

“I can book you for tomorrow,” he tells me. “For security purposes, could you give my your birthday?”

“One-thirty-one-fifty” I say.

“I'm sorry. This is indeed a bad connection,” he says. “Could you please repeat that?”
“JANUARY THIRTY FIRST NINETEEN FIFTY!” I shout.

“Thank you for that information. And may I know your telephone number.”

By now the whole airport is looking at me... standing by myself at a bank of payphones, shouting at the top of my lungs. I'm afraid they're going to call security. The airport crew must be quite on edge these days.

After shouting the last four digits of my social security number, my email address, and the spelling of my name...

Is that M-I-K-E-L?” he asks.

“No! M-Y... like in YIPPIE-- K-E-L!” I say.

Thanks you for that information,” he says. “There should be a confirming email in your inbox within the next few minutes.”

I shout... and hang up.

I check my email. Nothing new there except an offer from some Nigerian asking me to hold his money.

On the train back, I have a nice talk with Ari, a Guyanese guy. We talk about Kaiter Falls and where to get good pepperpot in New York. Yeah, Sybils is the place, we both agree.

I make it home in less time than it takes for dinosaurs to become extinct. By then, there is a message from Norwegian air with “confirmation” of my flight tomorrow. I have dinner and start writing.

It's now about 3:30AM, my time. I'm going to post this and try to get some sleep. I'll let you know what happens tomorrow.... er... today... later. 

BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE:

Today I checked the Norwegian Air website well in advance. This was waiting for me:

 

That means I have to get up at 5AM my time... and I arrive just after midnight in Denmark! My poor hostess... my poor circadian rhythm!

I've written before about how I hate it when everything goes right. That always means a disaster later. Right now, I hope I'm getting my disaster out of the way... even before I leave.

--Mykel

Oh yeah, you can read my other-- more controversial-- blog at mykelsblog.blogspot.com. Comments are welcome.

Osaka Two: The Naked and The Nude: Posted Jan 11, 2016

JAPAN ENTRY NUMBER 4:

THE NAKED AND THE NUDE

I start this blog on the plane from Seoul to Manila. The Japan phase of my trip over, I'm starting a fortnight of new life in The Philippines.

More customs/immigration to come... and in a burst of honesty-- I've checked the COUGH list on The Ebola Card. (Crossed out NOT APPLICABLE) Let's see what happens.

(I'm adding to this blog on the plane BACK from Osaka... actually back from Taipei where I transferred from a Manila flight. I still have the cough... worse than ever.)

Flash back to Osaka:

The Japanese have a phrase: hadaka no tsukiai, literally naked relationship. It refers to a special bond formed by being naked with your friends or co-workers. More on this later.

Before we get naked, let's go to the first Drink Club of the trip. Check out this crew at a take-your-shoes off restaurant.

[NOTE: If you know me, you know I wear army boots... always. In a take-your-shoes-off culture like Japan... army boots are a pain in the ass. Others slip on, off, on again. I have to untie... loosen pull my feet out...usually the tight boots pull my socks off in the process. I've got to put my socks back on... then finally step into wherever. It takes me double digit minutes to cross a threshold. In Japan, a raised platform always means TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES. Everywhere has a raised platform.]

This drink club is in an izakaya... one of those eateries with raised tatami platforms where you have to (you guessed it), take off your shoes when you sit down, and put them back on again when you go for a piss.

What a great crew! Takashi, Kazu Yada, a Hong Kong co-worker of Takashi's who calls himself Jerry... and is one of the best new people I met on this trip. (Yeah, I saw him naked,,, we'll get to that in a little while.) Plus there was PYOKO!!! Drink Club Goddess^® ... my heroine, the woman of my dreams... the beginning and the end... THAT PYOKO!! Have I died and gone to heaven?

Over dinner Takashi asks me... “Hey Mykel, what do you want to do in Osaka?”

I explain that I've done the Skywalk, and Okonamiyaki and Takoyaki... I want to do something new.

“How 'bout SPA WORLD?” asks Takashi.

“Sounds like science fiction,” I say. “Like planet of the apes.”

He laughs.

“But isn't a spa where you lie on your stomach and someone with strong hands beats your muscles until they hurt?”

He looks at me like I've asked if a crowbar was a place where blackbirds get drunk.

“No!” he says. “It's like an onsen... but indoors. And there are all kinds of pools and showers. We could be hadaka no tsukiai.”

“Do boys and girls go there together?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, “but they're on different floors. I thought you liked onsen, Mykel. It's the same thing.”

[In fact, one of the reasons I'm in Japan is to go to an onsen... with monkeys. It's been a long time dream of mine.]

“You're right,” I tell him. “Besides they don't call me Mykel ATM for nothing.”

“ATM?” he answers. “You mean like a bank?”

I shake my head.

“ATM,” I say. “Anything That Moves.”

Conversation stops for a few seconds.

“So we meet at Spa World tomorrow at 2PM!” he concludes. “Who's coming?”

“Me!” says Jerry, “I've always wanted to go there.”

“I'm in,” I say, leaving the double entendre for the (non-present) English-language native speakers.

FLASH TO SPA WORLD: It's in a faux luxury building that I wouled have called kitch at the time, but after seeing the Philippine Hotel Paradis, will just say is... er... a bit much.

Outside is a statue of some creatures arising from a hunk of marble. 

There's PAN blowing a flute, a horse, and another figure who seems to be fighting off the advances of the horse.

The building itself has faux marble pillars with a white-on-blue SPA WORLD sign, in English, over the same thing, but metal on metal, in Japanese. Here we are in front, ready to take the... er... plunge.

Inside, there is a little wooden space ground level. Then, a platform with a cashier and a lot of little rooms off to the side. (As I write this, it occurs to me that Takashi might have paid for everyone, but my memory often fails me.) After paying, you climb onto the raised platform.

My fuckin' army boots.

On the platform is an advertisement for a special HIP SLIMMING massage, available on the third floor.

“Can you pay extra for a happy ending,” I ask Takashi.

“Slim hips are the happy ending,” he says.

I let it go at that.

From the platform an attendant shows you the way to the SHOE LOCKERS, where you lock away your shoes and take the key. Then you move to the CLOTHES lockers.

We enter that locker room and find a few lockers together. Stripping down-- as in any lockerroom, sideways glances get covered with blinks and random dumb conversation.

“How 'bout that Bird Series?” I say

“What are you talking about?” asks Jerry

“Hawks against the Swallows,” I continue, “two birds.”

He sniffs a laugh.

There we are: naked, clothes locked away... unlike a gym lockerroom where you change from one set of clothes to another, here you change from one set of clothes to NOTHING. At least that's what I think... but we walk naked from the lockerroom into another room where we select longish blue robes (reminds me of hospital gowns) and put them briefly over our naked bodies.

Those robes, it turns out, are only for elevator travel. The same elevator carries men and women... and there's a prohibition of revealing the good parts to one another.

Takashi pushes 4 and the elevator goes up. There are no girls with us in the elevator.

“They switch floors,” explains Takashi, pointing to a coded calendar inside the elevator.

“Here's the schedule. You have to check it before you leave the elevator to make sure you don't get off on the girls' floor.”

“What if I WANT to get off on the girls' floor?” I ask.

“You might leave a bit...” He says something that sounds like dabokusho, I guess it means trouble.

Off the elevator... into the locker room... three lockers together... Bang! Off come the clothes. We're naked now, hadaka no tsukiai friends... with friend parts dangling... mine a bit shrivelled... lucky I guess in relation to the alternative. We go to another room to pick up towels... included in the price of admission.

“Don't look at my ass,” says Takashi... whose slim white nether parts contrast beachedly with the rest of his tanned body.

“How did he know?” I think to myself.

“Just checking to see if you need that hip-reduction massages,” I say. “You don't.”

He laughs.

The three naked us stroll into the first bath, a clear... rather shallow... pool with one guy... about 40, chunky, with bad skin... already sitting in it. I step in, surprised at its lack of scalditude....

NOTE: Japanese baths are notorious for their heat. Even the public baths... sentos... are supposed to be hot enough to boil a lobster. This was hot... but not killer hot... Tabasco rather than Death Sauce 2000. Comfortable really, easy to settle in... only necessary to hold the good parts for a few seconds before releasing them to the luxury of the water.

“Don't grab yourself there,” says Takashi. “People will think you have a disease.”

Jerry laughs.

So there we are... in the shallow bath... water clear and warm. The good parts floating free. They look like three tiny baby butts... just breaking through the surface.

We sit by the side of the pool across from the guy with bad skin... We talk about Japan... work... life... girls... my plans for my future time in Japan.

“I want to do this with a monkey,” I tell Jerry. “Just sit naked in a hot bath... talk about the weather... life in Japan... Just sit next to a monkey, put my arm over his shoulder...”

I put my arm over Jerry's shoulder... he does not flinch... he laughs, in a very non-simian way.

“Share a banana... ask about the wife and kids,” I say.

“In Nikko?” asks Takashi.

“I heard that the monkeys in Nikko were too unfriendly,” I answer, disengaging myself from Jerry. “They have monkey gangs... they're really racist. If you're not a monkey they attack you... you're an illegal alien... Sometimes they hit you, steal your camera... No thanks. Those monkeys need to learn a little tolerance.”

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, “I heard that too.”

“I'm going to Nagano,” I tell him. “They have nicer monkeys there. Welcoming, liberal monkeys who enjoy diversity.”

He doesn't get it.

“Let's go to another bath,” he says, standing up. Jerry and I follow... down a short hallway... we pass a bunch of other naked guys. One of them has his upper arm wrapped in a bandage. At first I think, “Uh oh... there's gonna be oozing pus in the water.” Then I remember: Public baths don't allow tattoos. It's because of their association with the Yakusa. The bandage probably covers a tattoo.

We pass a few other naked guys-- several with bandages. I guess tattoos are becoming increasingly popular here... I'm waiting for the full body guy who comes in bandaged like a mummy... maybe covered with Saran Wrap-- if it's a fresh tattoo.

As fashionable non-Yakusa tattoos increase, the character of these baths will change. They'll look less like nude locker-rooms, and more like hospital wards for burn victims.

Before we enter the next bath, we go into a side room filled with... salt. Great sacks of the stuff... course... like kosher salt. Takashi takes handfuls and starts rubbing it on his skin. Jerry and I follow suit, pretending we know what we're doing. The salt dissolves into my wet skin. I rub it everywhere... in some places, it hurts more than others.

After we're covered in salt, we head to the next bath... this one a bit hotter than the last... Is that steam I see rising from the surface? Slowly we step in and sit our salt-covered naked bodies down on the shallow bath floor. I feel like I'm making soup.

From salt bath to outdoor bath. I take a plunge... breast stroke across the pool..

“Mykel,” says Takashi, “it's not a pool. You don't swim here.”

Jerry laughs.

“Should we go for a massage now?” asks Jerry.

“Happy ending?” asks I.

“Costs extra,” says Takashi, not shaken a bit.

“Wow,” I say, “who was YOUR English teacher?”

He looks at me and smiles.

I laugh.

We hit one more place before returning to the lockerroom to rid ourselves of our nuditude. It should have been weird... being innocently naked with people... especially one I've met so recently. The whole event was just fun... not arousing... not embarassing... just fun... even for an ATM like me.

FLASH TO LATER THAT NIGHT: Jerry and I are meeting Pyoko at her favorite tachigui bar. One of the few Japanese customs I dislike is the penchant for doing almost everything standing up... especially drinking.

[ASIDE: I guess there are some Americans who also love to drink standing up. Often, I go to a U.S. bar and the tables are empty... there are empty seats at the bar... a crowd of people will be standing... elbow to elbow... chatting and drinking... maybe with a few seats taken... by their coats and shopping bags.... like standing means “I'm on the sex prowl.” I just don't get it.]

In Japan, there's more: They have standing bars, standing noodle shops, standing takoyaki stands. Will there be standing toilets for girls? Standing hotel rooms? I'm going to a wedding reception in a couple days. Are they gonna have a standing reception? (Yep.)

Tonight, Jerry and I are meeting Pyoko. Takashi's gotta work.

[NOTE TO TRAVELERS: One of the hardest things to understand when you're visiting friends is that those friends have lives outside of you: work appointments, sex liasons, day-to-day stuff. Their lives don't get put on PAUSE when you arrive. Sometimes, it takes a while to get the message.]

We meet at the station close to the bar. Pyoko walks us though a maze of streets until we get to a series of toilet-stall sized bars. She stops in front of one and bows with an openhanded gesture like the maitre d' at the 21 Club before the an international celebrity enters.

We walk in. Pyoko follows. It turns out SHE is the celebrity!

Everyone greets her and waits as she introduces us. One of her long-time buddies comes over to ask where we're from, why we're here, and what we're drinking. It isn't long before we become friends and he joins us for a picture. 

Hey, this is fun. Standing and drinking isn't so bad... you can walk around that way, give gravity a chance to empty your stomach... look less paunchy... It takes less room. Maybe I'm beginning to get it.

Ah, so much more happened in Osaka, but I've got to move on to Kyoto and the story of Frog Berry... and Lola.

But before we go, I have to mention a most unusual invention. I it saw on Japan's largest indoor walking street. Everybody knows that bagels are fragile. If you drop one, it bruises. So what does the world need?

A BAGEL CUSHION... only in Japan.

-end-

[Contact me through facebook or via email: god@mykelboard.com]