SPRING BREAK (Part One): It's a hitchhikers dream... I'm in Hawaii, on Highway 11 on the Big Island. Thumb stuck out five minutes. A car stops. Pulls in just ahead of me. A beat up '59 Ford, with tail fins. I grab my pack and run up to the guys sitting in the front seat. Only one is a guy. Both are slim, brown and Oriental. The girl gets out so I can sit between them.

She's about 18, with small breasts and narrow hips. I slide next to the young man, about the same age. Not a whisker invades the perfect skin of his tanned face. The girl gets back in, pressing against me.

The car takes off. Blam! Not even a "Where you headed?" They don't care. Neither do I. It's 45 seconds before the girl rests her hand on my lap.

"You're cute." she says.

The guy turns his smooth face toward me and smiles. My New York Jew face reflects in his sunglasses.

"How'd you like to be the tuna in our Oriental love roll?" he asks.

Like I said, it's a hitchhiker's dream. The reality is much different.

I've been standing here for an hour. It's drizzling, gradually soaking through my hat, dripping down the brim, just catching my nose. The only rides I've gotten today were from people whose name should have been Bubba. It's been one of those trips.

It was s'posed to be a cheap, relaxing vacation. From New York's cold to Hawaii's ikiiki.

I leave New York wearing my 30 year old motorcycle jacket, still in perfect shape. I figure I might need it for the volcano.

It gets cold at night, I hear. I also bring my TRIBE 8 t-shirt.

That should help me meet the right people.

Just me, my laptop, my jacket, my t-shirt, and 100 Years of Solitude. First, a three day visit to friends in LA. Then a carefree bake on the beach, a hike around volcanoland, a few blowjobs from the grass-skirt crew, a column written, two books revised. Yeah!... Yeah right.

The first disaster hits on the plane. I'm typing on my trusty old Toshiba, the one that's survived Mongolian deserts and Japanese steam baths. I type:

"A person is a biographical..." The screen goes blank.

Black. Nothing. The laptop lights flash. The hard drive whirs.

It's not the battery. But the screen is deader than Elvis. Away two hours and calamity strikes. It took longer than that in Outer Mongolia!

My lacking laptop forces me to return to basics. To reclaim a part of my past-- the pen and paper. Can I survive? It'll be difficult. Even though they base the metaphor on the objects in hand, it's much easier to cut and paste electronically than with real scissors and glue.

Besides, there are two things I want to write about this month. That's why the column is so long, and cut into two parts.

I want to tell you about my adventures in Hawaii. I also want to write about the fashionable support of the Dali Lama and that pseudo country in the Chinese mountains. So I scratch my pen over paper:

How many anti-religion punk rockers jerk their knees at that cute bespecled man, followed closely by Richard Gere, who's followed a gerbil-length away, by THE BEASTIE BOYS.

"Independence!" they yell... and we nod, raise our little fists and yell back, "Independence!"

Shouldn't people have a right to their own country? Should everyone? How about The Serbs? And The Klan?

More on this later. Right now, the plane has landed at the L.A. Airport.

After taking the computer to the repair shop, paying the sixty-five dollar estimate charge, I decide, "Fuck it-- I'll buy a new one."

I'm off. Store to store. Sale-to-sale. Each has just what I'm looking for, at just the right price. Each is sold out-- "at the moment... Come back next week and we'll have more."

I'll be in Hawaii next week.

Back at repair shop they tell me that, for an additional $500, they can fix my old Toshiba. Put in a new screen. I tell 'em to do it because I need the machine. In two days, it's fixed.

Time to catch the plane to Hawaii.

I get to the counter and speak with the young temptress on the other side. She tilts her head oh-so-cutely, letting her left pigtail flop against her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sir. (I LOVE being called sir.)" she says.

"That flight has been cancelled... mechanical difficulties."

Eventually I get another flight, leaving from the other side of the airport.

Why am I going to Hawaii anyway? They invented surfing!

People have tans. The natives, though Oriental, are fat. Does that sound like a place for me?

Well, I've been to every other state, although Alaska was just a stop at the airport on the way to Japan. I want to collect them all. I have enough frequent flyer miles to get there for free. I've internetted myself a place to stay with some punks in Honolulu. No hotels.

Since Thailand, I've learned to love beaches especially ones where I can throw myself into the waves and be dashed against the sand. Since Guadeloupe, I've learned to love taking my clothes off at the beach and watching others who do the same. Hawaii has plenty of those places, I hear.

I type these words on my laptop, when... hello... hello? The screen conks out again. Fixed for two hours! That's it!

I get out the pen and notepad and continue writing about Tibet:

How many of these pro-Tibet fist raisers would wear a Confederate Flag on their hats? How many would say Lincoln made a mistake by not granting The Confederacy the right to self- determination?

How about every maniac white or black separatist who believes she should carve off a part of America for "her people?" Do they deserve independence?

Whoops, the plane has landed in Honolulu. I put on my jacket, then squeeze out of my seat, into the aisle. Once in the aisle, I reach up to open the baggage compartment. Fffffft. The shoulder, where the black leather sleeve meets the black leather body, no longer meets. For thirty years that jacket has held.

That thread has stayed threaded, but now, this time, this trip....

Dave, from THE STICKLERS (the best band I saw on the islands), waits for me at the gate. Maybe he recognizes me because I'm the only one wearing a fedora and black leather jacket in the 80 degree heat.

"Mykel Board?" he asks.

I nod.

"I thought so." he says. "I like the torn leather jacket.

Very punk."

"Fuck you." I answer.

Our relationship improves after that, though. The guy's much less of an asshole than I am-- and he used to be a Marine!

He carries my pack and takes me to where I'm staying. It's with Alex, his girlfriend Noey, their roommate Chris, and his girlfriend Nicky.

Chris is a blond surfer type boy from the big Island. He plays in a ska band (EXIT 24), smiles a lot, doesn't eat meat, goes out every night. Days he spends fucking his beautiful girlfriend. Much of the rest of the time he talks about it.

"There's only one kind of meat I like to eat... Get it?"

He's a happy-go-lucky-ready-to-go-out-and-have-a-good-time kinda guy. Nicky too, is cheerful, smiley and easy going. On the other hand, Alex, at whose invitation I'm staying here, is a wirey 19 year old with the face of a little kid. He never leaves the apartment. All day he's on the computer or practicing his guitar. He plays in half a dozen punk bands including the crossdresser fronted IMMINENT RIOT, where Noey drums.

When not playing guitar or computer, Alex smokes the green and reads zines. He's pale, cynical and asocial. His girlfriend and drummer, Noey, is even more extreme. Dyed black hair. Riot Grrrrl glasses. She's a merry prankster with attitude.

Example: We're at a big punk show. A benefit for the homeless organized by Hawaiian kingpin, Jason. (See the endnotes for more on this tragic personality.) He's let Noey sell from a table outside.

It's a fund-raising sale. To pay for the band to go to Maui.

Noey and her female friends sell cookies and bottled water.

Before long, they've sold out.

"Dig through the garbage," Noey tells the girls. "Find any old water bottles."

In a flash, she has a stack of dirty empty bottles. Then, she's gone. Into the ladies room. In a few minutes, she's back.

Bottles cleaned, refilled-- from the sink.

"Water! Bottled water fifty cents!" she shouts to the crowd.

Before long, she's sold out AGAIN. Including one to a cop.

The ultimate recycle.

It's into this milieu I'm dumped. Fresh from the airport.

Before I do anything, I call the computer "repair" place in L.A.

"Just ship it back to us," says Ben. "We'll fix it again."

Shipping, however, costs me another sixty dollars.

Alex ventures out to the local diner-- next door. After seeing the Mahalo on the garbage can flaps, I figure I've learned my first Hawaiian word: garbage. Alex laughs.

"That doesn't mean garbage," he says. "All the mainlanders think that. It really means PUSH."

I appreciate the information, but resent being called a mainlander. I later learn there are worse epithets. The most common being haolie, pronounced [howl-lee], meaning "whitey." There's also moak, pronounced [moke] meaning "Samoan." Is there another place in the world that has a curseword for Samoan????

I spend a week on Oahu island, hanging out at Waikiki, seeing shows, watching SORRY rehearse a very funny Sesame Street parody. Alex and I help with the words. Then, it's time to hop over to the REAL Hawaii. The big island with that name.

Before I leave Oahu, I call Stevyn. He's a friend of Pennie's, a longtime pal of mine. I don't know exactly what Stevyn does, except that he lives on the side of an active volcano. I could use an exotic pal in the volcanic wilderness.

And he'll probably be good for meals while I'm there.

"You've got to meet him, Mykel." says Pennie. "You'll like him. He's smart, funny and has a stupid Y in his name, just like you."

I call him to identify myself and my relationship with Pennie.

"Oh, it's you," he says, "Pennie told me about you. Yeah, you can stay in the back room here-- but I work and need space to chill out."

"That's okay," I answer, "I'm just looking for a pal in a place I don't know."

"What are you going to do for food?" He asks. "There are no stores here in lavaland."

Great, Not only won't he cook for me, but he won't even let me use a couple days worth of macaroni and cheese."

"Okay," I tell him. I'll go shopping in town. My plane gets in at two PM. Where do I get a bus to your place?"

"There are no busses," he says. "Call me when you get to Volcano Village (population 1516). Maybe I can come pick you up there.... if I'm not busy."

"How do I get from the airport to Volcano Village?" I ask.

"Pennie tells me you're pretty smart," he says. "You'll think of something."

The airport is about five miles from Hilo, the closest "big" town. From Hilo to Volcano Village is another twenty miles or so.

I walk from the airport to Hilo. Backwards. Facing traffic with my thumb out.

Once in town, I buy some coffee, sardines, lots of ramen, canned tuna, and a six pack of Old Milwaukee. The total bill?

Thirty-five dollars. Groceries aren't cheap in Pineappleland.

Then it's back to hitching, this time with an additional bag full of groceries. I wait. It begins to rain. No one stops.

It's not that Hawaiians are nasty or mainlandophobic. It's just that not all that many of them casually travel up the side of a volcano. Only tourists do that. Tourists don't stop for hitchhikers.

Finally, a local stops for me. A big moak, shirtless, with tits that'd do a centerfold proud. He smiles at me when he opens the door.

"Hey man, where you stay from?" he asks.

"Hey man too," I answer. "I come from other island."

"Kauai, man? " he asks.

"Manhattan, man." I answer.

His eyebrows pull together in thought. I don't think he gets it. But he IS going to Volcano Village.

He lets me off in front of a local eatery called "The Steam Vent Cafe." now nearly four thousand feet above sea level, I zip my jacket against the cold. Then, I call Stevyn.

"Hi," I say, "I'm here. Right in front of the Steam Vent Cafe."

"Oh, it's you," he says. "I'll come and pick you up... when I get a chance."

In less than three hours, he's there.

"That torn jacket may be fashionable," he says, "but it won't keep you warm."

I don't say anything, but just get in the car.

We drive through nowhere, down a nowhere street, past a nowhere golf course until we get to a clump of log cabins in the middle of nowhere. In the larger one are two men and a diaper- wearing monkey. This is not a symbol. I'm not using magical realism. I'm talking about an actual tail-bearing, armpit scratching, banana eating monkey!

In the smaller cabin, lives Stevyn.

When we arrive, he shows me the back room and tells me the rules.

"This is where you'll be staying," he says. "Here is the heater. You can keep it on for a little bit, but make sure you shut it off when you're in bed."

I nod.

"You have your own entrance in the back. There's no need to walk through the rest of the house to disturb me. Also, the bathroom is in my side of the house. So, if you need to piss during the night, just go into the back yard."

Stevyn walks back into his side of the house and closes the door between us. I check out the back yard. It's lush, with plenty of trees and underbrush. It ends abruptly in a fifty foot cliff, dropping to rain forest below. Did he want me to walk out there in the dark looking for a place to piss?

I continue my walk to check out the volcano and to get an idea of where I am. There are only a few hours of light left.

When it gets colder, I return to the cabin, entering quietly through the back door.

Music blasts from the other room. Something New Agey. The same guitar and piano over and over. Then comes... THE FLUTE!

Full volume! The world's most obnoxious instrument: not by accident shaped to be shoveable up the flautist's ass!

I brought earplugs for punk shows. Who wudda thought I'd be using them for a flute!

Earplugs firmly in place, I jerk off to nothing more than my imagination and a little Ben Gay rubbed on my balls. After that, I pick up my pen and paper and start writing:

Independence is violence. Except for Czechoslovakia, where has a country divided without setting up a continued point of violence? India-Pakistan. Pakistan-Bangladesh. The former Soviet Union. Yugo-fuckin-slavia for G-d's sake! Everywhere. The more factions, the more boundaries, the more ethnicly pure the people, the greater the violence.

Independence means LESS freedom, not more. It means another border, another place to show a passport, another ideology, another, narrower, more sectarian set of laws. Don't talk to me about "Free Tibet" unless you're willing to support "Free Dixie," and you're a bit late for that one.

******************

SPRING BREAK PART TWO will probably be next month's column, unless something even stranger happens!

ENDNOTES: [Thanks to your protests, sit-ins, marches and church burnings, MRR no longer has column length restrictions. All power to the people! Yeah!

Still, visitors to my website:

www.freeyellow.com/members2/seidboard/index.html, or column subscribers (email to: MykelB@ix.netcom.com) will receive a few extra endnotes.]

--> You should write to Alex Idiot for his zine or just to find out about the Hawaiian Scene: 2828 Kapiolani Blvd (C), Honolulu, HI 96826 email alex_idiot@hotmail.com. You can also contact Christ and EXIT 24 there. They've got a CD that's as much fun as they are.

Speaking of CDs, Alex introduced me to THE CONNIE DUNGS from Kentucky. They're my new favorite band. In case you haven't heard, they've got the best punk vocalist since HR! Their songs are funnier than a farting teacher. Please guys, send me some vinyl-- even CDs! I love you!

-->Something missing? dept: I got a questionnaire from a homo dating service. In the section "Tell us about the person you would like to meet," there are the following choices:

WOMEN: How feminine should she be? __ feminine __ soft butch __ butch __ doesn't matter.

MEN: How masculine should he be? __ very masculine __ fairly masculine __ doesn't matter

Your choice of women goes from fem to butch. Your choice of men goes from very masculine to fairly masculine. I wonder what kind of mustache THIS survey writer had-- or wanted.

-->Site of the month dept: There's been this email sitting around for weeks. I just let it go. What have I been missing? It's ROCKBITCH, a band after my own... er... heart. At www.rockbitch.com. Yowee! I can't wait to do... er... see 'em in person! I don't know if they read MRR, but if so, I promise a semen-stained hanky in exchange for a vid! Thanks for the tip, Bart!

--> Evil Boding dept: Suzy Poe, editrix of notorious Popular Reality (1116 Shepard St, Lansing MI 48912) writes about lefty in-fighting, "Many of the squabblers I know are becoming friends- - or friendly-- this year. It seems like a weird karmic thing that could only be the demise of the small press in America." THAT's why I'm not getting hatemail like I used to! You're my friends!

-->I think I have problems dept: Jason is the well-meaning Hawaiian promoter who set up the homeless benefit where Noey sold (and resold) the water. The boy is also the most important flame keeping Hawaiian punk alive. At the benefit, Jason set up his new video camera to tape it for posterity. Where else could you get so many Hawaiian punks together? It, along with the time and money Jason invested with no return was too good a deed.

Altruism is not something God takes lightly. And she didn't.

Someone stole Jason's camera. Later that night, Honolulu cops arrested him for riding a motorcycle without a license. He rode three blocks. They also jailed the girl he was with. She had an outstanding warrant-- for a traffic violation. Camera, bike and girl-- gone in a few hours!

This just in: Jason broke his collar bone skateboarding.

What is this? Was he Hitler in a past life and now paying for it?

Instead of shit, Jason deserves thanks and support. Visit his Hawaiian Express webpage at: http://members.aol.com/Hwnexp/ Buy something from him. I know it's on AOL, but you'll live.

-->Monster scam? I don't know. But since they don't ask for money, it can't hurt.

Naes told me about a company called MONSTERBOOK. It promises $10 or stock in the company to anyone who signs up other members.

But, a careful reading of the fine print says you'll get paid "when and if we go public"

When you sign in, you put in a referring number. Use mine for starters: 318461. Then you get your own number to spread to others.

After that, you'll get a free internet directory in the mail. You'll also get either cash or a stock certificate "when and if." I wouldn't hold my breath. But since they don't want a check or credit card number, it can't hurt to join up.

-->Here's an endnote that print readers won't get. I found this report from Reuters. It concerns the head of the Journal of the American Medical Association. He was fired by the Medical Association itself. Why?

The Journal published the results of a survey of college students that showed that most did not include "oral sex" when they used the term "having sex." By publishing these results, the editor "interjected The Journal into a major controversy that had nothing to do with science or medicine."

The AMA said the article was just a promo device to support Clinton's claim he wasn't lying. Wow! That man has friends in high places.

--> More on why I hate Clinton: My pal Kramer sent me the following email written by Lawrence O'Donnel. It would make me ashamed to be a liberal. But if I had a sense of shame would I be writing for Maximum Rock'n'Roll?

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

Bill Clinton has done more harm to liberalism than any Republican president ever dared to. After undermining Habeas Corpus, adding countless death penalty clauses to federal law, championing racially discriminatory sentencing rules in drug possession cases, and joining the Republicans in repealing welfare, he has now eliminated the American anti-war movement.

Tony Blair faced an angry anti-war demonstration in London today, the place where Bill Clinton protested the Viet Nam war when he was a student at Oxford. But there was no march on Washington this week to protest Bill Clinton's little war and his continuation of sanctions that, according to independent estimates, have cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of Iraqi children during his presidency. Instead, former anti-war protester Bill Clinton joined a group of former anti-war protesters, now members of Congress, in his Rose Garden this afternoon not to show their concern for Iraqi children, but to once again mount their passionate defense of lying in civil rights, sexual harassment lawsuits. Liberals have no idea how much of their souls they have surrendered to Bill Clinton.

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

Not THIS liberal!

--Mykel (mykelB@ix.netcom.com)

http://www.freeyellow.com/members2/seidboard/index.html