The Best Worst Day of the Trip or Diary Supplemental

Mykel's Journey to The North

Supplemental Entry: 

The Best Worst Day of The Trip

by Mykel Board

CAPTAIN'S LOG STARDATE 23 September 2016... Supplemental:

AASIAAT, GREENLAND

Blog entry 8 will introduce you to Inuaraq, my couch-surfing host here in Aasiaat. Right now you only need to know that he's a musician (quite well-known in the country) and an Eskimo. (Western hemisphere language police require INUIT... but the locals don't care.)

I've just arrived back on the ferry from DISKO Island. You'll read about that adventure later. First, I need to get this one out... while its still fresh in my ever more senile mind.

Inuaraq's house is close to the port/ferry terminal. Straight ahead from the boat... across the street and up the wooden staircase. It's a massive blue house, over-looking the harbor. You can see whales from his living room window.

Inuaraq gave me a key to the house, so I can let myself in... the lower entrance... closer to the room I'm staying in. I take off my shoes, as they do in Greenland.. and Japan... and France... and in an increasing number of places around the world. I enter “my” room and hear a shuffling upstairs.

A voice: Are you there?

“Yes,” I shout back, “I just got back.”

“Come upstairs,” says Inuaraq, “dinner is ready.”

It's muskox fajita: heated tortillas, salad, ready for self-folding. No hot peppers... but this is NOT Mexico. Best muskox fajita I've ever had.

“You want a beer?” asks Inuaraq.

“No, I hate beer,” I don't say.

“Sure,” I say. “What goes better with fajita?”

He laughs and brings me my first beer of the evening. I finish dinner, showing my satisfaction with escaping gas... fore and aft.

“Sounds like you're ready for another one,” says Inuaraq.

Before I can agree, a second Carlsberg is on the table in front of me. Inuaraq gets one for himself, and we toast to Greenland, Eskimos and Aasiaat. Cheers in Greenlandic, by the way is KAZUTA!

The second beer disappears even more quickly than the first.

I guess there's a beer surplus in town, because when I've finished that one... Inuaraq is on cue with another. He prefers a glass. Me? I'm a bottle drinker.

One more... then it's time to go to bed. Not that I have to do anything special tomorrow, though I do want to contact a great Eskimo lady I met at the local Tourist Information Center. Turns out she's Inuaraq's cousin. I want to ask her to rub noses with me. That's one of my goals in Greenland... to rub noses with an Eskimo.

After emptying the last beer, I slam the empty bottle down on the table... beer drinker talk for That's all she wrote.

Inuaraq gets it immediately.

“Last one?” he asks.

I nod.

“Okay, then get dressed... we're going out,” he says.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

”To a bar,” he says, “the one I was telling you about. The one we plan to overtake.”

“You mean take over,” I say.

He nods.

“Can we see it now?” I ask. “Isn't it abandoned or something?”

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “it's just a regular bar. We plan to overta... er... take over next year and turn it into a music bar. Come and take a look at it.”

It's pitch black outside. I'd been hoping for an aurora, but so far none on this trip. Inuaraq leads me via cellphone flashlight through “a shortcut”... over ice-covered rocks, up and down rickety wooden staircases, across unlit streets. I think we're walking in a straight line from the house... any barriers... we just climb over them. A pair of very slippery boulders in the way... we climb them... a rickety wood stair case... we climb it... swamp grass next to a highway guard rail... over we go. Over to the other side of the “highway”.., there it is: TULUGAQ.... it means raven. And it's a bar. Here's the local airport ad for it:

It's around 10pm. There are fewer than a dozen patrons. The bartender is a rotund Danish-looking guy. Grey hair and beard... could be a bartender anywhere in the world. Inuaraq speaks to him in Danish. Two beers appear on the bar in front of us. Inuaraq pays for them.

“Min Dansk er ikke ret god,” I tell the bartender. “Kan vi snakke på Engelsk?”

“Sure,” he says, “English is fine with me.”

He looks like a story-teller. He is a story teller. Telling about his hotels in Illuset and his other property here and there and how he can't wait to give up this bar... It's just too much at his age.... His wife is annoyed that he's away from home so much.

Two more beers come.

An Eskimo-looking guy-- tough oriental face, hint of a mustache, thinner than most of the Inuit persuasion-- comes into the bar and sits next to Inuaraq. It's unclear whether they know each other but they strike up a conversation... in Greenlandic.

Inuaraq tells me the guy is from Illuset and he's been hunting. He just shot 3 caribou,,, two of them died instantly, but one was hit “in a bad place.” So the hunter had to kill it by hand. He couldn't shoot it because that might scare any other approaching animal. So he slit the beast's throat... then sliced through the back of the neck to cut the head off. He says he has a video, but doesn't know if I'm... er.

“I don't know the English word,” says Inuaraq.

“Check squeamish in the dictionary,” I suggest.

He does.

“Yep,” that's it.

“No,” I tell him. “I'm not squamish.”

I order three more beers. Give one to Inuaraq, one to the hunter, and keep one for myself. I pay for this round.

Sitting at the end of the bar is a rather chubby girl, wearing an orange INUIT t-shirt. Nice design-- and I want to make conversation. Maybe get my chance to rub noses.

“Nice t-shirt,” I tell her.

“Thank you,” she says and smiles like a heart-breaker. She tells me her name... which I immediately forget. I tell her mine. Inuaraq taps me on the shoulder.

The focus returns to the hunter. Here's the video: A snow-covered field... two dead caribou, one other... bleeding from the side... raising and lowering its antlered head... Big doe eyes looking pleadingly as the hunter lifts that head and plunges a long knife into the spine. Then, he again plunges in the knife... slicing around, snow turning red... a full view into the throat of the almost dead animal. Like a medical textbook...Wow!

This is it! It's why I travel. I can see buildings and landscapes in photos. But I can't meet the people. I can't see saftig girls in INUIT t-shirts. I can't see homemade videos of silent caribou killings. Yes! Yes! Yes! This is exactly it! My best night in Greenland. Better than rubbing noses.

By now, I'm completely plastered. Six... or is it seven... bottles of beer in two hours. I close my eyes and begin to drift off in thoughts of bloody caribou and the terrific beer-shit I'm going to have tomorrow morning. I'm not sure I can walk.

“One more for the trip home,” says Inuaraq, putting a 200 krona note on the bar. The bartender gives us one each.

We talk more about caribou hunting. I show I'm a member of the tribe... dropping big words like rifle and antler. Oh yeah, I'm in on the hunt. We three promise-- next time I'm in Greenland-- to take a hunting trip together. We shake hands. The hunter and I are almost teary in our parting. What an adventure... a drunken night with the locals... as local as you can get. Pure non-tourism, THIS is what I travel for. Oh yeah.

The only problem right now is figuring out how to stand up. The bar has started to swirl around me. The bartender has begun to look less like a bartender and more like a polar bear. I feel a pressure in my bladder, but can't get the energy to trek around the corner to the men's room. Even if I could manage that, I'm sure-- after opening my fly-- I'd be unable to find what I'm looking for.

“Okay Mykel,” says Inuaraq, “shall we go back?”

I nod... I think. The trip back is a blur. Maybe we teleport. I can't remember one second between leaving the bar and arriving back downstairs where “my” room is. It's about 1PM, Iguess.

I'm ready to pass out when I hear a clumping on the spiral staircase that leads from upstairs to downstairs. It's Inuaraq.

“Do you mind if I invite two girls over?” he asks.

“Do what you like,” I say. “But I'm drunk. I've got to go to sleep.”

“Ok, Mykel,” he says. “See you tomorrow.. ah... today.”

“See you,” I say, closing the door and dropping onto the bed, fully-clothed-- except for my boots. How I found those, let alone removed them-- I don't know. I wonder if I'll be able to find them in the morning.

4AM: The pressure in my bladder awakes me... at least I think it's the pressure in my bladder... It could be the noise upstairs. It sounds like a political debate... two loud male voices... the a female's screaming laugh... more voices... another scream. I'm gonna have to walk into the middle of this. In a contest between embarrassing myself and relieving my bladder-- the bladder wins, every time.

I check to see that my pants are really still on. They are.

I pad upstairs and see the gang at the diningroom table. There is Inuaraq, two pretty Eskimo girls, a big guy I've never seen before, another guy who may have been in the bar (not the hunter)-- and the fat girl with the Inuit t-shirt.

I wave to them and head to relieve myself. On the way to the bathroom, I trip over a case half-filled with beer. No doubt it started all-filled.

From inside the bathroom, the noise is louder now. There's some kind of sing-a-long... in Greenlandic... top of the lungs... everybody knows the words. A boisterous, drunken choral... a roof-raising worthy of a German beer-hall.

Downstairs, the sound is slightly muffled... no it's not... it echoes off the hard wood... rings like a church choir. I scramble for my toiletry kit. There are a pair of earplugs there. I'm sure.

No there aren't. There is ONE earplug.

I shove it in... deep as it will go. I pile pillows on the bed, put my plugless ear against them...pull the blanket over my head And fall asleep... Yeah right.

6AM Gunshots interrupt my attempts to doze. BANG! Laughter. BANG! More laughter. I drift from semi-consciousness to full. BANG! BANG! Okay, I'll clean up the blood later. Right now, I need to get to sleep.

8AM Again awakened by my bladder. I debate getting up. The bladder, as always wins. It's quiet now. No sounds. I go upstairs and it's empty. No blood, no bullet casings. On the table is a YATZHI pad and dice. THAT was the BANG! BANG! The sound of dice being slammed on the table.

I can see into two of the three upstairs bedrooms... they're empty. The bathroom door is closed... from inside I hear the sound of running water. I'm guessing Inuaraq is trying to shower off the night's excesses. I'll give him some time.

8:15AM I try again, same sound from the bathroom. Sounds like a long shower... with a strange lack of movement.

8:30 AM I try again. The same sound. It doesn't seem like anyone is moving under the shower. The shisssssh of the water is steady... and unbroken stream. I knock on the door. No answer. I try the handle. It's locked. My bladder's gonna explode. I'm gonna die.

9 AM This is it. Do or die. Back to the silent upstairs. Everything's the same. Door locked. Water sound. Otherwise... er... the sound of silence. I don't know what to do. There are no trees in this whole country. Where can I piss outside?

I walk through the house, tracing where I think the bathroom is. Behind it, is the laundry room... makes sense because they both need water pipes. There's a window... not to the outside, but, from what I figure, to the bathroom. It's open... probably to let out the shower steam and the smell of beer shits.

The window is way above my head. There's no way I can look through it... or is there? Maybe if I climb on the washing machine, then lean way over to the left-- I can see something.

I put my palms on the washing machine and boost myself up. I see a bit of the bathroom. I can see a wall rack, and a piece of the floor. Water sloshes on the other side of the window. On the floor, lying on his side-- apparently naked-- at least from the nipples up... that's all I can see... is Inuaraq. Unmoving, as the water splashes over him. Skin pale. He's dead. Alcohol poisoned... the shower water washing away his death liquids.

Damn, I'm dealing with the first corpse in my travel career-- human corpse, that is. We're not counting caribou. Think fast. What needs to be done? I know what's most important.

I run downstairs past my bedroom... to the recycle room. There, placed neatly in a box on the floor... are various jars, bottles, other glass containers. Here's a juice bottle... maybe a little small, but we'll burn that bridge when we get to it.

I piss into it. Just make it without overflowing. Ahhh.

I screw the lid on, put on my jacket, take it outside to try to find a place to hide it. I don't want the cops to find a bottle of piss and start asking questions. I put on my coat, and walk outside, piss-bottle in hand. I walk onto the wooden porch. Shit, there's someone coming up the stairs. I gotta ditch this sucker now.

Fffftunk!

I throw it under the staircase, where it probably lies to this day.

Then, back upstairs to deal with the corpse.

I know... I'll go downstairs... stop someone on the street... ask them to call the cops for me. What do I know? I've never dealt with a naked corpse before... let alone a naked corpse in Aassiaat Greenland. They're gonna think I did it? Check fingerprints with the FBI... find my stomach medicine and think I'm a drug dealer. This is just awful! The worst day of my life.

Back at the bathroom door. I try the chain punch I learned in my Wing Chung class. POW-POW POW-POW POW-POW POW. One after the other... like a machine gun. Loud enough to wake the dead... I hope.

No response.

Ok, time to transfer this to a higher authority.... ah... there are my shoes. I put them on... hear a door open.

“Hello? Hello?” It' Inuarq, leaning through the open doorway, using the door to hide his lower nuditute.

“Fuck,” I say. “I thought you were dead.”

“No,” he says, “just in the shower.

9:45 I go back to bed

11;30 I get up, the sun shining through the curtainless windows as it does every day. Usually at 7:30! [ASIDE: It's amazing how few people here have curtains or shades on their windows. Besides providing a show of intimate adventures, the lack of curtains is a soundless morning alarm-- in the fall (and spring, I guess). But in the summer, it's never dark. In the winter, it's never light. So how does lack of curtains help with that?

Upstairs, Inuarq sits on the couch watching a soccer game on his huge TV. The maid is mopping the floor in the bathroom. Just another quiet day in Aassiaat.

“You had a wild night,” I say to him.

“You could say that,” he answers.

I head for the bathroom to take care of what old men have to frequently take care of. The maid is now washing the kitchen dishes. After bleeding the hose, I flush and leave the bathroom.

A stirring comes from Inuaraq's room. I figure he's changing clothes, or cleaning up after the rough night. I figure wrong. Out of his room come two girls--- the two pretty ones-- from the party last night. They're barefoot... slightly disheveled.

“Good morning,” I say to them.

They smile at me... wave... go down stairs... and before long I hear the back door slam shut.

Wow!

--To Be Continued

Special note about Inuaraq: As you can guess from reading this, he's an amazing guy! I feel like he's my long lost Eskimo brother. Besides his bar-- that'll feature live music-- he's organizing a festival-- twice a year (summer and winter)-- in Aasiaat. If you're in a band... or know a band... that'll be in Europe touring, especially Northern Europe or Germany, you should contact him at: inussuit@gmail.com

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.

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

Concrete or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 7

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Seventh Entry: Concrete

by Mykel Board

I start writing this in a Thai coffee shop housed in a large wooden shack in Aasiaat, Greenland. This town is so small and obscure that Google maps don't show the streets. And here am I, eating sweet ramen, and saying Kup Kun Crahp. Hey, an Eskimo friend has joined me. I met her in the tourist info center just down the street. (Everything in this town is just down the street.)

Her name is Silly... at least that's her nickname. She's an artist, a theater lady, and a tourist information giver. Here we are-- not rubbing noses... yet:

FLASH AHEAD: I sit in another ferry-- much smaller than the vessel I took here (Aasiaat) from Nuuk. No beds on this boat. Only a sitting lounge, and an outdoor cargo/smoking deck. We're docked here in port waiting to set sail.

I'm waiting to go from Aasiaat to a disco. Actually, to DISKO ISLAND about 3 hours away. My instructions are: when I get there, I'm supposed to go to a soccer stadium... THE soccer stadium... on the other side of town. There, I'm supposed to look for a guy filming the installation of new AstroTurf. His name is Georg (no E at the end). He'll “take care of me” from there. This blog will self-destruct in 1 minute.

For me, waiting for public transportation is as much fun as listening to a JOURNEY concert... or any of those progressive bands. They're as progressive as Hillary Clinton... and as irritating. YES? No! GENISIS? I exodus. JOURNEY? I'll take Greenland, thank you. That's journey enough for me.

It's 1:28... and we should be off in 2 minutes. We'll see.

FLASH BACK TO DENMARK

I've arrived at Pedro's super out-of-the way domain. I'm staying in his girlfriend's room. On the wall is art:

Pedro tells me the artwork is called GITA S. It's named after Sylvester Stallone's famously endowed paramour ex-wife. The girlfriend/ owner of the art is off in Copenhagen... having a pancreas transplant: the fourth ever performed in the country.

Today, I'm going to visit Johnny Concrete, my very long time pal, punk rocker, train-lover, and... er... different kind of guy. I plan to spend some time with him. Then join him and his friends at the rehearsal studio-- to get down to some music business. The old punks of Aarhus have joined together to make The Snotty Old Punkband. They'll be playing soon. That means they've got to rehearse.

After we get up and eat-- Pedro drives up to Johnny's place. There... on the door... above the mail slot is:

It's about noon-- on Monday. Johnny's day job is a school teacher. I hear the kids love him.... doesn't surprise me at all. If you had a punkrock teacher in third grade, you'd love him too. Right now school's out... doesn't start again til mid-September.

Pedro knows on the door. No answer. Knock again. A shuffling comes from inside. The handle turns. There's Johnny, half awake... in the middle of dressing... putting on a CBGB t-shirt.

“For a New Yorker,” he says, “I should wear something New York.”

We hug. It's really good seeing him again. There's no one like him. While some punks are angry, some are funny, some are rebellious, Johnny's is grumpy. He sits on the couch in front of the TV. There is a soccer game on. Pedro and I glance at it. Johnny is paying it more attention. Pedro and Johnny are civil, but not exactly palsy. After a few minutes of chit-chat, he leaves.

“That's the first contact I've had with that guy in months,” Johnny tells me. “He was in our band and just quit. We had a whole tour set up and he just walked away.”

“I did it again!” I think. “With The Sods in Copenhage and the Dream Police here in Aarhus. Oh yeah... that's Mykel. He brings people together.”

“You wait here, Mykel,” Johnny tells me, “I'm going out to get some beer.”

I check my cellphone. It's 12:30. [I never drink before noon.] “Sure,” I tell him. “You want some money?”

He waves me away with a PSHAWW gesture. Then he leaves and returns with a shopping bag full of beer.

I again offer money. He refuses. He'll make me pay in another way.

With an open beer for each of us Johnny settles to watch to the boring soccer game (a pleonasm?).

“Let's go out and eat something,” I suggest.

“No Mykel,” says Johnny. “This is my holiday. I'm not leaving home if I don't have to... besides I want you to see some things.”

He switches the TV to YouTube.

“Look at this, Mykel,” he says. “Unbelievable musicianship... and more than 40 years ago!”

You've probably guessed it: JOURNEY.

What you haven't guessed is FIVE HOURS of it. JOURNEY. YES. GENESIS. By the end, I was longing for an ingrown toenail or an anal fisher to distract me from the pain.

“You want another beer?” Johnny asks an hour into the skin-peeling.

“Several,” I tell him. “Why don't we go out and get something to eat?”

“I don't want to go out, Mykel. I told you that,” he answers.

Then he disappears into the kitchen and comes out with a couple pieces of smorbrod... a Danish-style open faced sandwich... thin brown bread topped with fish or liverpaste or something like that. [In Greenland, I have it topped with reindeer pate.] The snack is delicious... just right for my hunger... but on TV...

“Look, there's Peter Gabrielle... as a young man... wasn't he terrific?”

I did get a couple breaks. One DEAD KENNEDYS with a very young Jello Biafra singing Holiday in Cambodia... and one clip of Rodney Dangerfield on Johnny Carson. You know the rest....

At about 6 o'clock, Steen from the Zero Point shows up with the rest of the band. We're off to the rehearsal space. There's a lot of people... mostly old guys... and then there's me.

Here we are again, in case you missed the picture last time. That's Johnny making the Devil's Horn gesture, Steen, with the black shirt and hideous grin, me you know. The others... all fine guys, but I forget their names. I think there's a Michael in there somewhere.

--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.

You can 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.

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.