You Gotta Fight For Your Right Even As Some Accuse You Of Being Wite (Even When You Are Not)

I, Sid Yiddish, am done with political correctness and social media mob mentality. It is time to bury this shit for once and for all. Especially on social media and in universities, where it seems to have taken over for worse than better.

In my defense of this thought, I present the following three incidents, in which I was the brunt of political correctness and angry social media mob mentality. For worse, not better.

Example 1: The argument of white privilege; verses the idea of quality of work. I got into a conversational thread as I do often on Facebook, in which I defended the idea of quality of work verses the idea that because a prominent late night TV host happens to have several white men and only two women on his writing production team that somehow that is offensive and unfair. I defended my position the following way: “It's not really and shouldn't be about color or gender. It is his choice on who he works well with and that what should matter most.”

The person in whom I was engaging with, someone who I consider a pretty good friend, in real life, responded in the following manner: “Unlike you (meaning me, Sid), I think this type of answer comes from being a white man in society. Despite your eccentricities, there are things afforded or allowed, indulged to you that are not to others. Sadly for women and all people of color, having their work being overlooked, ignored, denigrated, not taken into consideration, solely because of their ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation is a sad reality. And yes, in an ideal world it shouldn't be about color or gender. But I believe that in an ideal world, Blacks, Latinos, Asians, queers, and so on would be hired regularly at those jobs. TV and writing for TV is very much a white man's game.”

Although I knew what she was trying to say, she was saying in such a way that was insulting to me. And so I responded again: “By no means, because I am "supposedly white" that I have more privileges or have had better or greater opportunities than you or anyone else. If you don't like the situation, then do something to change it. But try not to bemoan the dilemma of your gender or color of your skin because as you well know, plenty of others have gotten their jobs not based on color, but based on their quality of work they bring forth to the table. That is what it should be about. Quality, not quantity.”

And again she responded, leaving me with a few articles to read, explaining why my whiteness was so horrible told to me through other writers, who could easily defend her position better than she ever could.

I left her with this response: “I see, so because I disagree with you, because of my whiteness you think that reading these articles will help me to understand better, even though I was born to who I was born to? I don't look at myself as, "well, I'm better than you, because I am white." You know better than that. In fact, if you really want to know something about privilege/race in this country, go and research how Walt Disney treated white Jews (animators, actors, actresses, etc) between the 1930s-1950s. You really need to understand that it has nothing to do with being white. That is just an excuse. It has more to do with production and quality of work. No one should be hired on a team just for their color of their skin or gender alone. That is just wrong.”

And even after all of this, she responded: “If that's what you think I said then this is a useless dialogue.”

To which I responded: “it’s not useless to me. It’s useless to you because I don’t agree with you or the writer of the original article.”

I don’t know if she responded further or not, but in my mind, I thought, “it is your choice not to watch him if you don't want to, but ah, I think there's a bigger issue abound and it has nothing to do with color or race or privilege. And that is called sour grapes.”

Example 2-At Columbia College Chicago during my second year of grad school, I was part of a classroom competition in my Connected Studio Practice class, in which we students had to anonymously submit four images and one minute video to be judged by a panel of prestigious arts related judges, to show us what competition is like for art fellowships in the real world. I submitted my work and patiently waited.

Came the judgment day and we all waited impatiently, except for me mostly because I felt if I were to have taken the prize it was either going to happen or not happen. When it came to my turn, the judges viewed my work as sensual and warm. They didn’t like the artist statement past the first paragraph and that was okay with me. The judges expressed pure adulteration for my images and video. After one more student was judged, the vote came forth and wouldn’t you know it? I won. 

In fact, all the winners were men, 1^st place, 2^nd place and the 2-runners up. Winning meant bragging rights and $100. And $100 comes in mighty handy when you are jobless and paying for college on your own.

Moments after the competition, the howling by the losers began. It went something like “why did all men win? The judges are bias. They are against women, “ howled the losers and the resident professor feminist. 

The funny part was that all three judges were women and all three of those judges’ preferred good performance art and not art that doesn’t say much. Now, I’m not saying that my cohort wasn’t as good or even better than me; they all well could have been and another day might have scored even better than me, but on this day, they didn’t.  And I wondered, why all the fuss? Fair is fair.

Example 3-between 1990 and 1995, I wrote for several alternative and independent presses, two of them being, Nightlines/Outlines and Gay Chicago. I never had a problem with the first publication, but I sure as hell had a major problem with the latter publication? Why? Because I wrote articles that were fair and balanced. And the entertainment/features editor kept editing out the balance, meaning the reality of the negativity that plagued the subject matter. And all he cared about was just showing the happy, positive side. As if no evil or terribleness existed in the gay and lesbian community of Chicago.

In those days when I wrote for those two publications (and others), I wrote for them because I wanted to learn all about the communities I was immersed in. the Internet was still young. I still believe that despite my handicaps (as in being one over another), I still wrote well because I understood.

The editor at the time never had problems with my articles, until one day when he became unusually livid because I dared to ask a question in an interview I submitted to him, with Phranc, the all-American Jewish lesbian folk singer.

He asked me at that point if I was gay or not. I told him that didn’t matter and that I was still capable of writing and asking important questions. With that, the editor fired me on the spot and told me, “I don’t have the time or the energy to explain to you what political correctness is.” 

That was 1990.

That editor has since moved on, won a ton of awards for being “politically correct or perhaps kissing ass. It could have been both ways, but I never knew for sure, but I suppose I can ask those who know him.

I remember the reaction 3 years later , in 1993, at the holy union of two friends of mine-the shock and hisses that went through attending friends, as my friend Don recalled the story. He was just as stunned.

Political correctness with a mob mentality within a bunch of nodding heads doesn’t belong anywhere. And yet, there is way too much of it. That sadly is what political correctness and social media has become, a bunch of talking heads that all agree on the same issues and bash anyone who doesn’t agree with them, even if they are correct just because they are incorrect.

Or perhaps it’s just a conglomerate of something greater and that is an out-of-control attacking electronic dog army of angry people who are collectively controlled by the stroke of computer keys. You see them everywhere online, including blogs, in shared vengeful videos, on Youtube, in comments sections of Internet articles, in college and university classrooms (students and professors combined), on buses, in the streets, at art shows, in alternative and mainstream media, talk radio, television morning news.

Chilling.

Just chilling.

Americans are out of control.

Christmas Music To Be Heard!

As many of you have noticed by now, I don’t celebrate Christmas. I do however like one little aspect of it and that being the music that’s played toward the days leading up to the holiday itself.

As a result, over the years I have collected several pieces of music that are in some small way related to Christmas itself. Going through my audio cassettes and compact discs, I have a rather limited, but eclectic collection of Christmas music including artists and if someone were to make me a couple Christmas mix CDs (hint-hint Junior), I’d be most obliged!

I don’t have all the standard pieces of music like I should, but I do have some of the cooler stuff, like: Nat (King) Cole’s “The Christmas Song,” The Beatles: “Christmas Messages 1963-1969,” John Lennon & Yoko Ono’s “Happy Xmas: War Is Over (If You Want It), Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime,” Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”/“Merry Christmas,” and Charlie Parker (and friends), “White Christmas.”

I can’t exactly remember how I got into collecting Christmas music to start with, but I think it had something to do with the novelty of a holiday, other than Halloween, which there are plenty of records out there to start with. There’s a whole market on holiday songs, but they only seem to be sold when the market is right or whenever the holiday approaches.

I seem to recall that several radio shows host holiday music programs, which is fine I guess, but I suppose it’s like dragging out the plastic fake Christmas tree along with the dull ornaments that are hung upon it and it gets so old after awhile.

Locally, we have two really cool radio stations that host special programs on or near Christmas Day, like “Blues Before Sunrise,” hosted by Steve Cushing and broadcast locally on WBEZ (91.5 on the FM dial) and syndicated by National Public Radio. Then there’s “Those Were The Days,” hosted by Chuck Schaden and broadcast locally on WDCB (90.9 on the FM dial). Schaden usually runs thematic programs, just as Cushing does and he does a fine job of it.

There are other programs I am sure, like syndicated shows on the weekends that will play Christmas music, both novelty and modern musicians of all genres and then there is at least one radio station in town, WLIT (93.9 FM) that plays nothing but Christmas music beginning after Thanksgiving, up to Christmas Day.

Even though I celebrate Hanukkah, which the music as far as modern stuff goes isn’t a whole lot to choose from, other than traditional stuff, although there’s been a movement afoot lately for new tunes, anyway, having said that, I think I’d still probably prefer Christmas music over other holiday music.

There are tons of novelty records too numerous to name, but I will tell you about at least two great Christmas albums you might consider owning. There’s this guy, late great guy named Harry “The Hipster” Gibson, who rose to fame in the 1940s with his novelty hit record, “Who Put The Benzedrine In Mrs. Murphy’s Ovaltine,” who back in 1976, put out a great Christmas album called “Harry “The Hipster” Digs Christmas, a real rollicking boogie-woogie pianist if there ever was a great pianist! The funniest cut on there is an original, called “I Wish My Mother-In-Law Don’t Visit Us This Christmas.”

Then there’s Spike Jones, who along with his City Slickers made buttloads of comedy records in the 1940s & 1950s, most notably, “Cocktails For Two,” and “William Tell Overture,” but back in the 1950s, he scored pretty solid with a hit called “All I Want For Christmas (Is My Two Front Teeth).” In 1956, Jones released a great, absolutely hysterical, yet serious, which seems hard to believe, but true Christmas album called “Let’s Sing A Song Of Christmas.” Perhaps the best cut on there is the version of “Jingle Bells” in pig latin! You have to hear it to believe it!

But, I’m digressing slightly, now where was I? Oh yeah! Continuing onward with a couple of great mix CDs I’d love to have, which would definitely have to include Allan Sherman’s “The Twelve Gifts Of Christmas,” a parody of the hymn “The 12 Days Of Christmas,” followed by Lord Buckley’s version of “Scrooge,” then “Beatnik’s Wish” by Patsy Raye and The Beatniks, followed by “7’O Clock News/Silent Night,” by Simon & Garfunkel, then Sun Ra’s “Happy Christmas,” the those crazy, annoying Singing Dogs version of “Jingle Bells,” followed by “I Yust Go Nuts At Christmas” by Yogi Yorgesson AKA Orion Samuelson, then a dose of Frank Sinatra, Jackie Allen & Judy Roberts & Vince Gauraldi.

Rounding out my listening pleasure, I’d like Tom Lehrer’s “A Christmas Carol,” followed by Tom Waits’ “Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis” and finally, the capper of all songs, “12 Days Of Xmas,” sung by none other than the late great blood-and-fecal and honorary mishegas master, GG Allin!

Now, I couldn’t think of a better way to treat my ears to some great, great music!

How I Met One Of The Nicest Jewish Men In My Life Or How Loshon Hora Isn't Always A Bad Thing

Every once in a while, someone writes or broadcasts something about me. Whether it's newspaper, radio or television or loshon hora (gossip), it is always something. Not that I am bragging about it, but it's the truth really. Someone always has something to say about the work I do, as an entertainer or about me. And sometimes it's really wonderful, while other times it is not, especially in the case of loshon hora, which I have written about previously here (Loshon Hora: Can't Live With It, Can't Live Without It-September 13, 2011).

In grad school, I've certainly had my lion's share of loshon hora, from those whom I thought were friends, to those who were hell-bent on cheap inferior talk for other reasons. Little blemishes of competitiveness. But that doesn't seem as important.

From this point onward, I will be presenting articles/reviews that have been written on or about me; whether I agreed or not. What's more important however, is how entertaining the articles have become, in some cases, over the years. This first example, is in my opinion, the best description of me ever by a writer and because of it, we have remained great friends!

I met Mykel back in 1991 at a fanzine conference in Chicago. We shared an extra large pizza together from Father And Son Pizza on North Avenue in Chicago, which is still there 24 years later. The only other remembrances I have of that conference was somebody being stabbed & meeting (or was it hearing about her?) performance artist Vaginal Creme Davis.

I interviewed Mykel initially for another publication I wrote for at the time, called Freefest, at Union Station in Chicago, while he was waiting for a train to take him back to New York City. He told me anytime I was in New York to come look him up and I could stay with him (for further reference on Mykel Board, see: Post Partum New York Stories>Act One: Sid Yiddish Visits Mykel Board, October  30, 2005). I have written extensively about Mykel; toured with him twice and even created a Tuvan ballad in his honor, Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer. He's a nice considerate man, whom I consider family, as he does of I.

In spring, 2005, I was published in the poetry publication, Si Señor and came to New York to read and ultimately throat sing at the event. I remember staying with Mykel and when I left, he told me to "have a thick skin." The rest as they say, "is history..." 

This column originally ran in July, 2005 in (now) San Francisco-based publication, Maximum RocknRoll, in the column; "No You're Wrong," by writer/author Mykel Board. In those days, Mykel Board was a regular writer for them. It was only recently that they axed him, a huge mistake on their part, because he tells it like it is and doesn't pussyfoot around, but I am digressing just a touch.

When I received this article from Mykel recently, it is marked as #265, but since it ran in July 2005, it looks like it became a part of Issue 266. The column remains intact, including the other folks he wrote about and all of his endnotes, which are entertaining on their own.

And now, I present to you, the column that Mykel Board introduced me in, to the punks of the world from 2005...

You're Wrong An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

Since all behavior has a function, there
can be no "dysfunctional" behavior. The term is
a scientistic (sic) euphemism for "disapproved."
-- Thomas Szasz

[As usual, names have been changed to protect my friends and my ass.]

     It's Monday. The clock-radio rouses me out
of my beer-sleep. The Yankees lost, something-
teen to 2. I whack the snooze button and drift
off. In ten minutes the radio is on again,
telling me the subways are on or close. Yeah
right.
     I flip the off button and curl fetally on
the bed. Tensing my stomach, I blow a massive
beerfart between the sheets. The Pilsneresque
fragrance wafts to my barlyed brain, acting like
chloroform. I'm once more asleep, dreaming of
Yankees who are NOT on or close.
     A few minutes later, I drift out of sleep
and force myself into a sitting position.
Somehow I stand and wobble to my desk and the
table next to it. I push the ON buttons on my
old laptop and ancient desktop computers.
Flashing Microsoft blue, they begin their own
struggles to wake up. While they boot, I waddle
naked into the kitchen to see if any dregs of
yesterday's coffee remain. As I reach for the
coffee pot, I notice that the hairs under my arm
are stuck together in a black crusty mass.
     There's about three inches of black goo
left from yesterday. I pour it into the least
filthy cup in the sink. That cup I put into the
microwave and go back to bed to take care of my
morning protrusion.
     Flesh in hand, I doze off again, expecting
the microwave DING will wake me up. It would,
except that I forgot to turn it on.
     Sometime later, I awaken to two bright
computer screens. One flashes red.
ERROR. DISK'S USAGE TABLE  ALLOCATES
TOO MUCH OR TOO LITTLE SPACE
FOR THESE FILES. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CORRECT
THESE ERRORS? YES OR NO?
   
I hit the ENTER key, figuring the computer
knows better than me. Then I go back to the
kitchen and press the microwave buttons for ONE
MINUTE AND THIRTY SECONDS. This time it beeps
when it's done.
   
 I take the hot coffee, and a piece of matzo
left over from Passover, and sit in front of the
computers. I gaze at the screens, waiting for
the words and images to make some kind of sense.
     While I wait for my eyes to focus, I call
my voicemail. [Aside: I hate the telephone. It's
an evil intrusion into my private world. I turn
the ringer off. I don't even know when anyone
calls. Twice a day, I check my voicemail and
call people back. Some people. Eventually.]
     Good morning, this is Citibank MasterCard
calling. We're wondering if you know that your
account... DELETE! NEXT!
     Good afternoon, Mr. Board, this is Al
Schweitzer from American Express... DELETE!
NEXT!
     Hello Mykel, comes a gentle almost-boy
voice, This is Paul Ratner speaking...
calling... I hope you remember me... We met at
the Toronto Anarchist gathering... convention...
a long time ago. I think you were chasing after
me, but Dave from MDC got me... You lost... This
one I let play on.
     And on it went. In fact, it went on so long
the voicemail cut it off... twice. It's too much
for me to quote here, but the gist is that he,
Paul, and his friend, Gloria, are coming to The
City for an Intersex Conference. The conference
lasts two days and could we please sleep at your
place during that time?
     If I hadn't already jerked off, I'd do it
now. Two sexy she-males sleeping at my
apartment. And a whole conference, a city full
of prancing trannies? How 'bout a party at my
place? I wonder if it's too early to call back.
     Turning to my computer, I delete a couple
item unsold messages from eBay. And laugh at,
then delete hustler spam from "a Russian girl"
and a "Malaysian young woman," telling me how
intrigued they were with my profile on "the
dating service." Could I please write back to
them and tell them more about myself? They love
me. Yeah right.
     Then I begin to daydream about the shemales
soon to visit. I unzip my pants and slip my hand
downward. As I do, my gaze drifts toward the
clock.
     Damn! I gotta leave for work. I'm already
late. I'll call the visitors when I get back
home. I just hope they don't find another place
in the meantime.
     I arrive at work an hour late. I've missed
one class. The boss is pissed. As usual, my
fellow teachers glance skyward when I arrive.
     "The train was late," I say.
     After work, I watch the guy playing Chinese
music in the subway station. He plays a Koto,
and a Mongolian instrument, a kind of square
guitar with a horsehead head. He looks Mongolian
to me, but I've never heard him speak.
     When I get back home I immediately call
Paul.
     "Yo!" I say. "You need a place to stay?"
     "Yes," he says. "You know. This conference.
It's so wonderful. I used to think I was the
only one... you know... like me. But since I met
Gloria... some people call her Ralph... she's
very accepting of both names... I know I'm not
alone. Now this conference... there'll be so
many... all together... there was this professor
from Stony Brook. I thought he'd be there, but
he's in Europe. But others... from all over... I
think... I mean... You can't imagine."
     "Sure I can," I say, unzipping my fly.
     "So Mykel," the voice continues, "do you
think it would be possible... I mean would it be
too much trouble... I know there are two of
us... we wouldn't be there much... Mykel? Are
you all right? You sound out of breath?"
     "I... I... I...aaaaaaaaaaah! I couldn't be
finer," I say wiping my hand on a handy sock.
"What time will you be here? I work 'til nine."
     "That's okay," says Paul, "the conference
lasts until 8 or so and then probably... we're
gonna go out to... you know... dinner or
something. We could meet you... I mean if it's
okay... It is okay, isn't it?"
     I nod into the phone.
     "We could meet you at 9:30."
     "Fine," I tell him. "I'm looking forward to
it."
     Flash ahead. It's 9:30. I stand in the
hallway, next to the buzzer. I'm wearing my
tightest black jeans, and a white on black DYKES
WITH BIKES t-shirt. The second they ring the
bell, I can let them in. Then they'll come up
the elevator and we'll be in a night of bliss.
     9:32. They're late. What if they don't show
up? I changed the sheets, and it's not even
March.
     9:37, Shit. They're not coming. Damn it!
After all those...BZZZZZ. The doorbuzzer sounds.

     I push the TALK button. "Who is it?" I sing
into the intercom.
     "It's Paul and Gloria," comes the return
voice, "you don't have to call her Gloria
though. Some people call her Ralph... and she's
very accepting of both..."
     I push the DOOR OPEN button and hold it a
few seconds. Through the intercom, I hear the
scrape of two people carrying bags, entering the
elevator and coming up. I open my door. Then
step into the hall, watching the elevator with
erect anticipation.
     The elevator door opens.
     In jails, I hear they use saltpeter. It's a
kind of spice that tightens the capillaries
around the penis, preventing blood flow. It's
used to limit the amount of sex among prisoners
by limiting the amount of erections among
prisoners.
     Here arrives my saltpeter.
     Paul is three or four inches taller than I.
He's square shouldered, as all-American looking
as a loaf of Wonderbread. He's got red rosy
cheeks with a pointed chin and nose and
absolutely no facial hair. But he's pasty white
and pumped, like Macaulay Culkin on steroids. A
gorilla with a little boy face.
     And Gloria? You're probably too young to
remember a Saturday Night Live character called,
PAT. Pat was a chubby sexually ambiguous person
whose humor lied in the fact that she... or
he... was so unattractive that nobody cared--
just a roly-poly roundness, as sexy as a soccer
ball. Gloria is Pat.
     I invite them into my apartment freezing a
smile on my face. They tell me about the
conference and how they look forward to it. They
tell me about life in a small town on Long
Island. About how they met and learned there
were more people like them. About how Paul was
born without the ability to produce
testosterone, so he has to take it through
injection and that "bulks him up." And how
Gloria never felt right in any case. And...
and... and... They go on.
     "It's late," I finally manage to say. "I
need to get up to go to work tomorrow."
     I start taking off my clothes. They look at
each other and do the same. Both strip to their
underwear... Paul in standard tighty-whities,
Gloria, boxers. Me, my sexy black bikinis...
that I regret wearing at the moment. Quickly, I
climb into my loft bed as my visitors huddle on
the couch below. They talk.
     I turn off the light but am unable to
sleep. The two chatter on the small couch, like
girls at a slumber party. I turn on the light
again and pick up some bedside reading, Darkly
Dreaming Dexter, and try to read myself to
sleep.
     [Aside: Here's my book recommendation. Get
this one! It's great. It's about a detective who
is also a serial killer. But he only kills
serial killers. Weird as hell and gory!]
  About 2AM the chatter stops. They've fallen
asleep, and so can I. My mind drifts to my
fantasy of before. A Lucky Chang Waitress. A
shemale. A slim twenty-year-old with cock, balls
and tits... and all of it beautiful. A tight
stomached, ethnic beauty who... who... What's
that sound?
     I'm pulled from my half-sleep into full
consciousness. One of the two is snoring louder
than a Slayer concert. What the fuck? I throw
Darkly Dreaming Dexter at the couch. The snoring
stops.
     The next morning, another loud body noise
wakes me up. Farting, immediately followed by
giggles. Then more farting. And more giggles.
     Intersex? Instead of the best of both
worlds, I get the worst. Giggling and snoring.
It's shemales turned inside out. Instead of a
beautiful girl with a dick, I get non-stop
talking and farting.  What have I done to
deserve... ok, better ask another question.
     Tonight we're eating dinner at a Vietnamese
restaurant. Gloria wears torn jeans and a HWA t-
shirt. S/he tells me HWA means HERMAPHRODITES
WITH ATTITUDE. I'm a little surprised there're
enough to have such an organization, let alone
such an attitude.
     Gloria holds the menu a few inches away
from her face and squints. "The light in here is
really bad," she says.
     My 80-year old father is blind in one eye.
The other is going fast. I know that "the light
in here is really bad," means, "I can't see and
I need some help with this, but I'm embarrassed
to ask."
     "I'll read it to you," I tell him/her.
     "I'm not blind," s/he says, reacting as if
I'd insulted him/her. "I just can't see in this
light."
     It's at this moment that the drums roll.
The horns come in. The lightbulbs flash. Tinker
Bell arrives and touches her wand to my
forehead. I GET IT.
     Suddenly, I get that these people feel
lonely, frustrated and picked on like the rest
of us. They have pride in what they can and
can't do, like you do. Suddenly, I see that they
have to go out every day and face the world
knowing that, not only are they different from
everyone else, but the first thing people see
about them is that difference.
     They don't choose to be freaks. They don't
live their lives to be different from everyone
else. In fact, they struggle to join everyone.

I can see just as good as you can. I'm just like
you except...

     Suddenly, I understand that when I fart,
it's just a guy farting. But when they fart,
it's some special thing. They aren't supposed to
fart or laugh about it like ordinary people do.
Suddenly, I feel like shit for asking them to
live up to my image of intersex. Do I live up to
their image of... I don't know what?
     "Hey, guys... er... people," I say. "This
meal's on me."
     "You don't have to do that," says Paul.
     "Yes I do," I answer.
     Flash ahead about two months. I met Sid
almost as many years ago as I'd met Paul. I
don't remember the details, but I do remember
that he gave me a cassette (or was it a
fanzine?) called COPS HATE POETRY. I remember
being amused that, for the first time in my
life, I found myself on the same side of an
issue as cops.
     [Aside: Yeah, I've changed a bit since
then, though my poetry tastes are still pretty
limited. But that's another column.]
     As I remember, Sid's a shlubby Jewish guy,
kind of egg-shaped, very sincere. I also vaguely
remember there was something eager about him. As
if he wanted to jump into new things with both
feet, and eyes closed. He told me about some
weird combination of hobbies --not AK-47s and
macramÇ-- but something like that. It was a
quality I admired.
     When Sid visits, I see he's still shlubby,
now shaped like a huge matzoball. He's pretty
much like I remember him, though. Balder,
perhaps, but who isn't?
     He carries a battered knapsack and what
looks like a red canvas gymbag. Because my
apartment is so small, he has to set these in
the bathroom before there is enough space for
him to make it to the livingdiningbedroom. I
offer him a seat on the bedcouchvisitorschair.
He sits down heavily, hands on his knees. His
deep-set eyes dart around him.
     "Your apartment," he says. "It's like
living in a thrift store."
     I smile.
     He looks at a metal colored-boy bank I have
next to my TV. Then he looks at the Uncle Ben's
cap on the big Munch-Scream blow-up doll. "I
notice you've got a lot of..."
     "Yes," I tell him. "I collect Negroes."
     He nods.
     "I need my red bag," he says. "I want to
give you something."
     I get it for him. He takes out a couple CDs
and hands them to me. "Some of my poetry," he
says, "I hope you like it."
     Then strange sounds begin to come from him.
Deep sounds, almost electronic, coming from his
face somehow.
     ooooWWWWAAAAAAAAAAA.
ooooWWWWAAAAAAAAAAA.
ooooWWWWAAAAAAAAAAA.
     It sounds like Tuvan throat-singing, but I
never heard a whiteguy-- let along a Jewish poet
from Chicago-- who could do it.
     "I've been studying Tuvan throat-singing,"
says Sid. "I entertained the guys on the bus
back from the airport."
     Imagine riding cooped up in a bus after a
long flight from Des Moines. Your first trip to
New York. You're already afraid of muggers and
Osama. Suddenly your fellow passenger starts
sounding like a science fiction movie... I'd
bolt. Go right back home.
     "What did the guys on the bus say?" I ask.
     "They didn't say anything," answers Sid.
"It was like they were scared or something."
     Sid spies my twin computers. "Do my mind if
I use one of your computers to check my email?"
he asks. "I've got these two girls chasing after
me. One from Russia and one from Malaysia. I
think they really love me."
     Eagerly, he checks his hotmail account.
Smiling and clicking his tongue.
     "They can't get enough of me," he says to
himself or me-- I can't tell which.
     Tomorrow Sid reads his poetry at "The
Bowery Poetry Club." He tells me he's scheduled
for 2 but probably won't start till much later.
He's going to throat sing as well as read poetry
for the masses. That I've got to see.
     I show up at 3:30, but I'm too late.
     "I'm sorry I missed it," I tell him.
Actually, I AM sorry I missed it. The absolute
natural weirdness of the guy is beginning to
intrigue me. He has such a pure oddity about
him. The kind of weirdness others spend a
lifetime consciously crafting. I haven't seen
anything like it since Jim Skafish (also from
Chicago) played at CBGBs-- except maybe for the
Intersexers who recently slept on the same couch
as Sid now sleeps.
     The next day I go off to work, teaching
Japanese businessmen how to act as obnoxiously
as Americans. Sid goes off on his own to explore
the city. He gets back to my apartment about an
hour after I do.
     "I was in the subway today," Sid says. "And
I saw this Chinese guy playing some weird
instruments. Something like a guitar with a
horse's head. I just watched a bit, then I
joined him with throat singing. He didn't say
anything. He just shrugged and went on. Other
people on the platform didn't seem to like it
though."
     "Dija get any money?" I ask him.
     He continues as if my question weren't
meant in sincerity. It weren't.
     "I'm meeting a friend tomorrow," he tells
me. "He's a really tall guy... and he looks like
Howard Stern."
     "Is he a poet too?" I ask.
     "Oh no," says Sid. "He's a comedian. He
does Howard Stern impersonations."
     Then he stops and jumps. Just a small jump,
but given his girth, the jump ripples through
his body like shockwaves ripple through the air
in front of a crashing 747.
     "I want to take up tap-dancing," says Sid.
"I want to learn to do this right."
     "Maybe you could tap dance and throat sing
at the same time," I joke.
     "That's the idea," he doesn't joke. "I want
to be able to do them both together. It would be
great to be skilled that way."
     I'm not working tomorrow, but I can't sleep
late either. The doorbell rings at 10 AM. I
climb down from my loft and put on my pants. Sid
is already dressed, trying to figure out how to
use the intercom/doorbell.
     I push the right buttons, opening the door
and watching as the elevator comes up to my
floor.
     Out of the elevator comes Howard Stern.
Well, a younger, much taller, Howard Stern, with
even longer hair. He shakes my hand.
     "Hi," he says, "nice to meet you. I guess
everyone tells you this, but I gotta say it. I
don't always agree with what you write."
     "Nope," I tell him, keeping as straight a
face as I can. "No one has ever said that to me
before. And, by the way, could you help me get
my air conditioner out of the wall? It's really
high and its 28 years old."
     The guy nods and comes into my apartment,
nearly hitting his head on everything. The two
of us struggle with the air conditioner for 15
minutes. Nothing happens. After 28 years, it's
not about to give up its position to Howard
Stern.
     I thank him for his efforts though, and
Howard and Sid go off to explore Times Square.
From here things are uneventful, or at least
unimportant. So let's flash out and into
mindland.
     During the sixties, hippies, yippies,
druggies and drop-outs-- those who chose a
tributary off the mainstream-- called themselves
FREAKS. It was a badge of distinction, warn
proudly by the long-haired culture rebels whose
non-conformity wound up as conformist as any
modern day Republican or vegetarian.
     Few people use the word "freak" any more.
These days advertisers use catch phrases like
"uniquely you" or "made to suit the rebel in
you" or something equally stupid. Everyone sees
herself as unique... a kind of freak, different
from everyone else.
     You too, I bet. You're not like them,
right? Yeah, right. You're as freaky as Ashton
Kutcher. You can slip in an out of freakdom as
easily as changing t-shirts.
     Excuse me while I open a Brooklyn Lager and
toast it to Sid, to Paul, to Gloria, to the guy
who looks like Howard Stern. These are the real
freaks. The ones who thrive in their freakdom
without ever seeing it as freaky. The
hermaphrodite who farts in the night, or the
shlub who throat sings on a subway platform
without the slightest intention of being weird.
     This brew's for those who live inside of
freakdom without showing it off. For those who
can't switch back and forth from freak to non-
freak because their bodies or brains don't work
that way.
     Give me your strange, your odd, your hungry
freaks, yearning to breathe free. Give me your
cast-offs, your poets and tap-dancing throat
singers. The wretched refuse of a homogenous
society. Send me these insecure, human, social
misfits. My couch is yours, and I lift my
beercan beside my open door. L'chiam!


ENDNOTES: [Visitors to my website:
mykelboard.com or subscribers (email to:
god@mykelboard.com) will receive a few extra
endnotes. There are just too many to keep up
with.]

Your tax dollars at work dept:
     This from an internet personal security
site:

Computer-security flaws at the IRS expose
millions of taxpayers to potential identity
theft or illegal police snooping, according to a
recent congressional report.
     The Internal Revenue Service also can't
tell if outsiders are browsing through your tax
returns, because it doesn't check its computer
systems for unauthorized use. These findings
were made public by the Government
Accountability Office found.

     I say, GOVERNMENT ACCOUNTABILITY OFFICE????
Whoever heard of such an agency? I can't imagine
them surviving the next round of tax cuts.

-->Who cares about flaccid? dept:
     Kesha sent me this from Reuters/MSNBC:

     A group of scientists in Hong Kong spent
five months measuring 148 ethnic Chinese
volunteers. The average length of their flaccid
penises was 8.46 centimeters (3.4 inches), which
compared favorably with similar studies on other
men overseas.
     Germans have average lengths of about 8.6
centimeters, Israelis 8.3, Turks 7.8 and
Filipinos 7.35. Italians were the longest at 9
centimeters and Americans averaged 8.8. The
scientists did not measure the penises when they
were erect.
     The study also found that a man's height
bore no relation to the length of his member.
However, those with higher body mass indexes, or
fat content, appeared to have shorter penises.
   
-->Whoops dept:

     Tom Yohannon, brother of God, emailed me
that I erred when I said that Turkey had
proposed a law decriminalizing adultery. He was
right. Mia culpa. (Or culpa of wherever I read
it.)
     The proposed law would have CRIMINALIZED
adultery, making it a jailable offence. As it
turns out, the law was never passed. Instead,
Turkey adopted more modern laws of oppression
and discrimination: jail terms for
intergenerational sex, for example. And a new
"anti-obscenity" law. Soon there'll be no place
to go. EVERYWHERE will be America.

-->In case you're not watching dept:
     The National Coalition Against Censorship
(www.ncac.org) reports on a PBS show "Postcards
from Buster." In that show, a little animated
rabbit travels around the country to see how
different children live. In one of the early
episodes, Buster learns about maple syrup and
dairy farming from some kids in Vermont. The
kids live with two women.
     Margaret Spellings, the US Secretary of
Education complained. She said "parents would
not want their young children exposed to the
lifestyles portrayed in the episode." Bravely
standing up for free speech, PBS pulled the plug
on the show.

-->Free speech for me, but not for thee, dept:
The "Holocaust Survivors Association" includes
Jerrold Nadler, my local congressman, along with
other big names, most with very Jewish- sounding
names. They don't have a website, but they do
have a phone number: 718-743-6640.
     What do they do? Their proudest
achievements have been:

     1. We stopped the sale of Nazi Newspapers
in Manhattan.
     2. We stopped the selling of Hitler T-
shirts in Times Square.
     3. We forced Lyndon LaRouche to leave New
York after two demonstrations in front of his
office.
     And, oh yeah,
     4. We work for human rights and social
justice.

     Errrr... isn't free speech a human right?
Maybe that one doesn't count.

-->Jew of the Month:
     With all the bad free speech stuff going
on, it's my pleasure to announce this month's
Jew of the Month. She is Nadine Strossen,
president of the New York branch of the ACLU.
     They're not ALWAYS right. And lately
they've been focusing more on "equality" than
free speech. Still the ACLU's the best we
have... and a good chunk of that is due to
Nadine.

-->Ah eBay times dept:
     While going through boxes of old newspapers
to sell on eBay, I found one date August 14,
1945. The headline: JAPAN ANNOUNCES SURRENDER.
Oh yeah, that was 2 1/2 months BEFORE the US
dropped the A-bomb on them.

Come One, Come All: Come On Out To Meet & Greet The Heckler!

Oh; to be a clown in the midst of performance. Oh; to lash out loud and roar with the crowd. Oh; to stand out alone from the rest of humanity and scream with disapproval as you are pitted between yourself, the audience and the main attraction…lo & behold!

Ta-da! Come forward and let's all meet and great that great two-headed monster, the heckler!

According to http://www.dictionary.com/, heckling is defined as “to try and embarrass and annoy (someone who is speaking or performing in public) by questions, gibes, objections or constant badgering.

In other words, the heckler is the one (or two-headed monster) person in the crowd who will try their best at attempting to mutilate, destroy, disrupt and generally wreak havoc onto a performer, speaker or writer; this is, in essence their entire reason of existence.

Those that attempt to do so generally believe the individual is hurting them personally or wants to get back at them for being hurt by them in perhaps the most miniscule way, but they might not have even been hurt by them to begin with, at least not directly.

Sometimes the heckler will heckle others in order to protect their friends or colleagues and therefore shout, write, wave signs and intentionally disrupt with the meanest, most low-down and cruelest words they can think of in order to achieve success inside their minds. This tactic is similar to bullying, railroading & accusatory actions. It’s a vicious cycle to say the least, but where does it all come from anyway?

Well, one place it may directly have a connection to are feelings of abuse, mistreatment; perhaps the most hurtful action is violation of their own most basic humanistic rights & abilities to which that may pose a potential threat for them to function as a normal human being.

So who gets the blame in all of this? Is it the educational system? The media? Outside influences? Television? Films? Society? Nope, this time it falls directly upon the responsibilities of their parents; especially if the nucleus of the family as a whole behaves in a total dysfunctional manner or has split up over variable differences, either from divorce or disagreement or again, has been harmed or abused (raped) in any shape, way or form.

I honestly believe that their heckling is their personal cry for help because when they heckle, they are actually drawing attention to their inabilities to cope overall and therefore struggle publicly and helplessly when they cannot understand and therefore react to actions in a semi-unreasonable & irrational fashion. They need the attention; it is a temporary fix to their lifelong misery.

On the other hand however, they are naturally-born human ornamentations that give a performer, writer or speaker some comic relief as they stand up there or write to them and babble on either vocally, electronically or on paper with their disapproval. They do add value to performances and give the performer, speaker or writer a chance to reflect on their incoherent criticisms, whether they are real or imaginary.

In that sense and in my eyes, I appreciate the heckler. Value the heckler as dysfunctional beings who cannot handle realism as realism goes & instead live inside a plastic bubble that can and does pop from time to time, giving them cause to become caustic for no apparent reason. They are the very reasons some of us performers make it. It kind of gives the natural freaks a real run for their money.

So, hecklers, come one come all! I dare you to step forward and make yourself known to the world. It is after all your dysfunction that keeps guys like me in stitches!!!

First Good Poem-Post Grad School

Since leaving grad school, not my choice, a year too early, I've been writing a lot of poetry again. Rather than hold it in, my feelings that is, I've decided to publish what I've been thinking about over the course of time that has passed. I welcome your remarks as always, but if you're a troll, I will ban you, mark my words; it will be done. In the future posts, I will be mixing it up a bit, featuring poems I wrote during grad school and post grad school. Here is, what I believe, the 1st good poem I have written, post grad school.

Character Actor

I am talking about burning bridges

Bridges I built and those about to come down.

My fault? Theirs.

I don’t know. I can’t feel them because living inside this glass house you can’t feel much, only see their lives as they let you.

That’s something I never try to do.

Try to do with purpose.

Honest, I didn’t mean it; it was an accident, a little voice rings in my ears

Good enough, let others do the burning if they must

Let themselves snap each other into two

Let them come crawling back, come crying out for you

Make them miss you

Make them beg you for mercy

Let them tell you they are sorry

Slipping inside and outside of character, that’s what traveling is for, the wise old man once said.

You can be what you want without batting an eye

You can be that fellow, girl and guy and wake up with a hangover and clap your hands

I think I need a change.

Like tires that have gone flat

I need a change before I become like that.

(written June 6, 2015)

Hello Again-Dream Baby

It's been a long long time since I've last posted something here within my blog-lots of changes from within and without; not that it's been a bad thing. Rather, it's been a good thing. To catch up, I'll be posting papers I have written for grad school, where I've been hanging out for the last 3 years or at least since September 2012. And very soon, I'll be posting regular blogs once more, but in the meantime, this is once of those papers.

Recently, for my Drama: Theory/Practice class in grad school, which I've been taking this spring semester, we were assigned to write a dream paper. And dream in this case, was to perform and/or play with anyone we desire, the premise being that money wasn't a problem.

And so, here is my dream paper.

If I were to have a dream performance, I think my biggest dream performance would be an international performance, at Royal Albert Hall, in London, England, with the Candy Store Henchmen at the helm of it, but with a bit of a twist.

For a band that never rehearses and just plays when we come together and perform on a regular basis, even a single performance like this would change the realm of everything for us. Not that we haven’t played/performed at big venues before; we have sparingly, it’s just that this one with money being no object, that this would be an even bigger place for us.

After securing plane tickets, passports, lodging for all 20 band members, including extended family and a couple of agents and roadies, loading up the jet with all of our gear securely and safely, we’d charter a private jet that would take us directly to Heathrow Airport in London from O’Hare Field in Chicago.

After we arrive and manage to get through customs rather quickly and unusually easy, we wait for the four station wagon-looking limousines to take us to our hotel, so we could unload our luggage, unpack our instruments and head back out to the rehearsal hall, where we would be joined by several guests of honor.

On average, it’s about a 30-minute drive out to the rehearsal hall, so our driver tells us, but due to traffic on the parkway, it takes us nearly an hour to reach the hall.

Once we arrive, we pile out of the four limousines and get to the trunks, loaded up with all of our gear, grab our stuff and head inside. When we reach the doors, we are greeted by a large brass band, fronted by members of the London Symphony Orchestra.

Once we settle in and exchange pleasantries, the work begins. In times past generally, when we have rehearsed as a band, it normally takes about 10 minutes to explain all 75 gestures. After that, we begin rehearsals; from a slow jam point of view and eventually morph into several compositions, with specific instructions added in along the way.

But before we began, the men and women in the shadows step forward and become men and women becoming musicians and dancers. Adding into the mix, the Henchmen welcome Sir Paul McCartney on bass and electronics; Ringo Starr on percussion; John Zorn on electronics, the entire London Symphony Orchestra minus their conductor and the entire dance troupe of the Joffrey Ballet.

Together, we rehearse two compositions, “Flight Of The Satanic Danish Squirrel” and “90 Minute Delay on The Eisenhower. Compositions that everyone present knows, including our guests who know, having the opportunity to have experienced it themselves many years ago.

The dancers twirl about on the floor, while McCartney twangles his bass in places that a bass shouldn’t go and Ringo drops a few weird percussive beats. Zorn falls into the Henchmen mode instantaneously and the conducting seems a lot smoother, as all of these folks, including the dancers. 

Meantime, the LSO is fitting in nicely like a knitted quilt.

But then a question comes, from McCartney. “What if,” he slowly asks, “if a beat is slower than it should be? Or what if the beat doesn’t sound raw or pure enough?”

“Go with the flow,” I tell Sir Paul. “Go with the flow and if you don’t get it, just interpret the gestures as you see fit. If there’s something during the performance that I don’t hear that’s flowing properly, I’ll come over and show you on the spot. I do that with all my Henchmen. Nothing to worry about,” I say.

The rest of the Henchmen nod their heads. They’ve all been there before. They know exactly what I mean, especially 13 and Chipped Nipple. Dennis The Menace has to be woken up, as he’s fallen asleep from jet lag.

I am ready to go. Everyone else is too, even after one rehearsal, but then again, it is the Henchmen we are talking about. We can be ready for anything and everything all in the same fell swoop.

Everyone shakes everyone’s hands and we all take selfies of each other. We know we’ll need at least a good night’s sleep before the night of the big show. Most rock stars despite them being mega rock stars realize that too, as they are slightly dragging while waiting for their limousines. A good night’s sleep should do it for us.

That and a good meal will fix us up right away. Jet lag can literally kill a person if they don’t know how to handle it. Most of the Henchmen haven’t ever experienced that before with the exception being myself, Dr. Nothing and Viking Dentist.

The rest of them have stayed stateside. But now, it’s all changed, but it can make a person disorientated if they don’t know what they are doing.

And sometimes they just don’t know.

After a good night’s sleep, a walk around the hotel; we’re staying in an undisclosed place; can’t have the press and the fans climbing all over the furniture, now can we? No, we can’t. Anyway, after a fitful night of sleep and a good breakfast consisting of cereal, eggs and blueberry yogurt and a cup of English breakfast tea, the group is raring to go!

No rehearsals this morning; just veg out and get to the gig. I look at everyone else; most of them are tired, but fairly happy to be in London. We haven’t had much time for sightseeing and I don’t think we will until after the gig itself.

The hours carry themselves well. Then it’s that time. Getting to the gig. We all wait for our four limousines and head over to the great hall. When we arrive, we all as if in one great thought process run toward the stage.

It’s the biggest stage we’ve ever performed on besides the Rosemont Theater in Rosemont, Illinois during Season 8 auditions for America’s Got Talent. It’s safe to say that we’re all pretty excited to be there. Everyone stakes his or her spot out carefully, while I inspect the stand I’ll be working off of. 

Seems to be in good sturdy order.

McCartney, Starr, Zorn and the dancers all join us. I tell them simply; “It’s do or do night and tonight,” I say, “we’re going to rock the joint!” They all nod, along with my band in agreement. What could possibly wreck our chances?

We break and go out for dinner and come back. By then we can see the line for the show forming. There are crowds and crowds and crowds of people. Pushing and shoving and snaking their way to get to their seats. Excitedly reading Playbill, imagine that! Seeing Sid Yiddish And His Candy Store 

Henchmen, with special surprise guests.

Seeing our names in lights is a wonderful thing too, but not so wonderful that it hasn’t happened before because it has. I’m just being modest. Really. Honest.

One of our roadies takes a peek behind the curtain and sees that every seat in the hall has a butt sitting in it. We are psyched and ready to roll.

Chipped Nipple shouts, “Let’s roll Henchmen!”

We grab our instruments and head toward the stage. The place goes dark and we follow the glow-in-the-dark strips and head forward. We are instructed to stay silent until the lights go up.

The moment they do, there’s a deafening roar from the crowd; sometimes I think it’s not always me they are cheering for, rather the men in the band and of course our guests, who also jump up on the stage. The Joffrey Ballet makes circles and figure 8s around us. Ringo Starr is lifted through an opening in the floor, rising up above behind his drum kit, that screams “Henchmen” on it.

John Zorn is with us too. The London Symphony Orchestra is seated in the pit.

Just as I raise my hands to begin the downbeat, who should appear from nowhere, but Yoko Ono, who starts wailing.

“Oh-no!” I scream.

She stops for a second and answers, “Yes?”

“Nothing,” I say back.

She goes back to wailing.

The crowd doesn’t know what to think. And then, someone starts to boo. It’s followed by a bunch of hisses, which only causes Ono to moan louder. The chorus of boos gets worse and people start throwing rotten fruit at us. Hurling insults worse than both seasons of America’s Got Talent combined.

The curtain falls down upon us.

“Success,” I say to everyone.

Was it just a dream?

Maybe. Just maybe.

Du kan ikke fortælle spillerne uden et scorecard>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 13

Before I go any further, I feel you should get to know the cast of characters along the way, at least thus far and who will show up in the next set of chapters. Not that you don’t know them already, but from my standpoint, it certainly will help you understand them a bit better. Besides, you just can’t tell a player without a scorecard, now can you?

Pedro Da Palma-bassist, lead throat and tour organizer>He’s the one person I stayed in contact with most, from the early days upon when we first met through YouTube all the way through now in person, here in Aarhus. He’s the one that did a lot of the footwork for setting up shows and interpreting & relaying messages back and forth between venues, band members and kept us all at an even-keel, for the most part. His disposition is a pleasant demeanor and truly one of the calmest Danes I ever have gotten to know.

Jacob Mulle Nansen-drummer and backing vocals>I did a lot a Skyping with him in the many months leading up to the tour and we had a lot of great conversations, so I thought. Took in a lot of background, learned a bit of language, learned a lot about the Clean Boys. Overall, his disposition can be a little rough around the edges and slightly abrupt, but what drummer isn’t?

Andrzej Morks-guitarist & backing vocals-family man, jazz guy, father of two daughters, but perhaps the most practical of them all, perhaps in terms of ideals. One of the most diverse guys I had met yet, but also one of the hardest drinkers and heaviest smokers I have ever known (apart from Pedro and Mulle)! And one of those guys that you’d want to get to know, especially at a party and there was certainly a lot of that going on in the early days before the actual tour began!

Kasper Hayes (AKA Baconslap Hayes)-when introduced to me, he called himself, “The Roadie From Hell,” the guy who “promised” to drink all your beer, take all your women and eat all your food. Took me a bit to get used to him, to grow on me, but a real gentleman in every sense of the word.

Karsten Lund-our tour driver. He drove the camper van for the lot of our tour, with the exception of Mulle a few times, but again the majority fell into the responsible hands of Karsten. Karsten taught me a few Danish customs, kept me from being arrested in Germany (but that comes later in the story), has the coolest Hammond B3-organ, works at a cool school and like Kasper, a true gentleman and a big, big heart of gold.

Cisco Gulløve-Safari Freakshow Adventure “official” photographer and temporary transplant from Brazil. Upon meeting him, his first words out of his mouth, were “US Bluff,” which translated into the United States is full of shit; not exactly a warm welcome to Denmark from him, no in fact, the tee shirt he wore to welcome me with, was one worthy that only a criminal mind could pull off. Outside of that, he was a friendly and frugally practical man.

Den Sorte Fane-friend to Clean Boys and a few others I met in the early days of the tour; a Food Not Bombs organizer, local Aarhus activist, especially May Day, punk rocker-also a hater/basher of the United States, but outside of that, he was truly a friendly guy!

Estrid Balslev-what can I not say about Estrid? Intense brilliant Danish performance artist who truly gave a damn about what she was doing in her work and made it work so others like myself who were “foreign,” got it pretty rapidly. Before, I flew over to Denmark, I studied Estrid extensively and intensely, mainly on YouTube, though I didn’t speak Danish, I watched the films she was in and was fascinated by her enunciation and movement. I kept up a correspondence with her shortly before I arrived, upon the suggestion of Pedro (I believe). She turned out to be a great friend and felt like a 2^nd mother to me (other than my own) and when we met, I felt the connection, almost instantly-a little cliché, I suppose, but it was true nonetheless.

Vitawrapmand (AKA Michael Persson)-poet and performance artist, the guy who wore more sausage in strategic and sensitive places on his body than I could ever consume on the whole of the tour! Wrapped himself up in Vita Wrap (Danish version of America’s cellophane), shrieked through a bullhorn with often hilarious witticisms and poetry. Danced and performed and made music with a female vinyl blow-up doll. Also the guy who published poems of mine in his collective Danish quarterly poetry magazine. Slam-danced & moshed with me the whole of the tour. All-around nice guy.

Frede Nielsen-Safari Freakshow Adventure record producer and funny guy-three days younger than my brother Benjy. Produced and engineered a few of the shows on the tour, specifically in Horsens and Viborg.

Okay, Fint Du Er Sådan En Guide, Du Kører Toget, Og Se Hvad Der Sker!>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 12

Down below the Copenhagen airport, I found my way to the nearest train station. As I waited, I noticed how different everything looked. Pretty obvious being in a different country I suppose. But I also noticed how empty the train station was too. A little too empty, I felt. So I asked someone, who in turn, informed me that the reason very few trains were going by, is because someone less than an hour before I arrived decided to jump in front of a train and kill himself!

Only recently, had I listened to a segment of the American TV program 60 Minutes, in which they reported that Denmark was the best place in the world to live in, because despite the world’s problems, that their disposition remained happy and content. This was not the case, I gathered, as I dragged my airport cart w/my bags across the railroad platform and waited for another train to board.

If you’ve never traveled in Europe, let alone Denmark, their trains are much like America’s Amtrak trains-extremely roomy, fast, but with a bit of an old world style-perhaps similar to old Pullman trains from America’s golden years of train traveling, in that, usually during late afternoon or evening, a man would come through every train car with a service cart, selling a variety of Danish foods, candies, newspapers and magazines.

We got as far as Korsor, when an announcement came over the loudspeaker that the train was stopping, due to mechanical failure. Mechanical failure, I thought. The train was working just fine! Someone, whom I asked, explained to me that since Denmark is surrounded by water that if the train had actually broken down within the tunnels that it would take several hours to fix. Upon learning this, I tried my phone to make a call, but it didn’t work and I slightly panicked until I asked a stranger if I could borrow hers. Once I had her phone, I called Pedro to tell him I was going to be approximately 3 hours late. It was already nearly 4pm. He said not to worry and they would be there waiting to collect me when I arrived in Aarhus.

I could tell, however, that I was getting closer to understanding the make-up of Aarhus, just by observing the people on the train; like the three assertive artsy bikers who kept teasing the conductor about driving the train themselves, to which the conductor handed one of them the key and said in Danish, something like, “Okay, fint du er sådan en guide, du kører toget, og se hvad der sker!” Even though I didn’t understand the language so well, I understood the joking gestures, which is what Danes seem to have inserted within the stream of their language. It was a quality I admired.

So we waited and waited and waited for about another hour until a replacement train came in and boarded that one. Quite an adventure I thought thus far. Then as I boarded the train and found a place to sit down, I struck up a conversation w/a guy who actually knew who the Clean Boys were, a guy, in a leisure suit, with a button-down collar. He pointed out all the important architecture as the train sped along toward Aarhus.

And then the strangest thing happened. We pulled into a station named Middelfart! That cracked me up! Made me lose what little composure I had left. Middelfart! That city name made my trip at that point memorable! Then we passed by Horsens (where our record producer, Frede Nielsen) lived. It’s where the Danish state penitentiary formerly had been housed. As I continued to converse with the guy, the time seemed to go faster, as I drank in all the beauty that surrounded us.

At long last we were pulling into Aarhus, it was close to 7 pm and I began looking for Mulle and Pedro outside the train’s window. As the train slowed down, I saw them! I began to yell and scream for joy, which caused a few people to look at me strangely. When the train stopped, I grabbed my bags, dragged them down the steps and called out to them! And there they were! I was so excited and thrilled to meet them in person! We hugged each other and then Pedro & Mulle both told me in so many words that Morks would be picking us up within the hour and we’d be going down to the studio to rehearse.

I was weary, because I really hadn’t thought about doing that since I was so dead tired and dragging on my feet. After putting a bit of food in my stomach, Morks picked us up in his car and off we sped to Hi-Fi Cairo (Clean Boys’ rehearsal space). From there, we did a full take of Bite It You Scum, a GG Allin cover tune and even though I was terribly tired from lack of sleep and severe jetlag, I managed to belt out perhaps one of my coolest and weirdest versions of the song yet! Stumbling over words, I ended up creating a braggart phrase (though not intentionally) that would follow me wherever we went on tour (who the fuck do you think you are/just a Danish superstar) while in Denmark.

“Let’s call it a night,” Pedro remarked after the session.

I couldn’t agree more!

Flight To Denmark>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 11

When I arrived at O'Hare Airport, I had my main bag immediately checked and went straight for the international terminal lounge-it had been a while since I last traveled overseas-London, 2000 and that too was one heck of a time, but the difference with London and Denmark, I wasn’t going over to just hang out on my leisure---I had a job to do, promote a record, build a fan base and show Denmark what it is that I do best.

As I went through the security detection system in the international terminal, a beep went off and I was asked to go through again. Turns out it was my fish hat-my lucky hat, hat that has scared off more people than is known to man, so I’ve heard. At least witnessed it on my cross country bus tour of 2002. I was asked to take it off. Why? It had buttons on it, which had metal on it, thereby it was a threat to potential passengers I would meet and/or flight crew. The TSA security guard sheepishly traded looks with me and muttered, “Go figure.” Only in Chicago, I thought.

I waited for what seemed like hours and the eventually, a call for plane boarding was announced and aboard I walked. The plane I flew to Denmark, was rather roomy. 3 seats across, lots of magazines and newspapers to read within the eight and a half hour flight and plenty of free meals and lots of good booze too-not that I drank, but I did receive a nice small bottle of wine during the flight that I tucked away in my backpack.

The plane of course was packed. And other than having a booklet of CDs and a portable CD player and maybe one or two good books to read, I felt I was set. Eight and a half hours was a mighty long time to be flying in the air. So, after the first hour of settling into the flight, I listened to music. Then read and wrote a little in my paper journal too. Slept off my excitement until at least 7 am, when the lights came back on and babies were being weaned by their mothers. It would be a long day, I was convinced of it. we’d already flown through two time zones, another few changes were coming along the way, that much I knew.

Even though physically it felt like I’d flown for more than 8 hours, I knew that it was considerably less due to all the time changes and besides, it was based on Danish time, not American. As breakfast was being served and the lot of us passengers were chowing down, Danish newspapers were being passed out. Not knowing a word of Danish at that point, I thought the best way to learn it was by reading a newspaper, writing the words down I seemed to like or wanted to know about and then perhaps asking Clean Boys or whomever I encountered later when I needed help pronouncing.

Out of the many newspapers being passed around, I decided to pick out Ekstra Bladet; not sure why, but I think it had all the appeal of a sleazy tabloid like the New York Post or Chicago Sun-Times. I began reading and lo and behold, I stumbled upon my first word: sneaglefart! I had no idea what the word meant and asked the guy next to me if he knew what the word meant. He sheepishly said he had no idea, since he was from Holland and didn’t speak Danish. He sure looked Danish to me, my first mistake in assuming that all Danish men looked alike (with the exception of Mulle). I continued to read and of course in the process I fell asleep, at least until we were close to landing.

At approximately 1.30 pm Copenhagen time (6: 30 am Chicago time), we landed! It took me at least half an hour to get my bag and then I had to get past immigrations and get my passport stamped. I was nervous at this juncture. All those what if questions began to formulate in my head. It was the moment of truth as I stood in line silently. One by one people went to the counter where the master passport stamper sat. Don't offer too much information my friends told me. They were right, as I watched one man, who was told to stand to the right of the booth. Kiss-of-death and most likely denial of entry for him.

Then it was my turn. I had all my bags with me, a bit overloaded and an armful of Danish newspapers tucked beneath my left armpit. I stepped forward. The man behind the booth in his thickest Danish accent, speaking English to me, gave me the once-over and asked, "Do you speak Danish?" "No," I told him. "Then why do you have all those Danish newspapers?" I was a little startled, but answered, "So I can read and digest the words." He looked up at me perplexed and studied me further. Then he smiled. "What are you in Denmark for?" "Vacation," I told him. He laughed, stamped my passport and waved me through. "Welcome to Denmark," he said.

I was in! Yay!

And that guy still standing to the right of the booth? He didn't look too happy as Danish custom agents began frisking him.

And now the adventure truly began...