Are You Like Me?
Have you ever wondered about the writing process? Have you ever wondered about the miracle of heart and mind ending up on paper–hopefully sand and soul converted to diamonds? Well I know something about this: so let us watch now and listen as a
great writer works. Maybe we can learn something about the craft and the style and the art of writing. And it won't hurt to be exposed to evolution at its best. A superior intellect in the body of a god with breeding and education and class
the frosting on the cake of the little peoples instinctive recognition of their place in the colonialist imperialist white mans world.
So let us go for our lesson to the United States and to Boston and to Louisburg Square on Beacon Hill and look in the window of a palatial Federalist style manor house. A third floor window casts a Dickens glow over the snow outside in the
private park. What do we see as we peer in the window? A cultured urbane sophisticated handsome man in a red and black Chinese robe and matching slippers. There is a fire in the fireplace and his Uri from Udon is in the bed watching pirated Thai
soap operas. He is sitting at his ebony inlayed desk sorting through a 3 by 5 note card box favored by well known authors everywhere. His name is Dana. I know this man. And he is under the gun. He is feeling the pressure of greatness straining
against time. A handsome New Zealand website administrator is asking him to consider sending in a submission. It is a good news–bad news situation. Pleasing the minions and assuaging the needs of vanity has appeal but his notecards are
out of order. He is having trouble getting organized. Let's listen in as he reviews the cards looking for an idea to send in:
–Are you like me?–Have you lost three jobs and been hit twice by cars because you spend all of your time dreaming about the sweat on a tranny's upper lip? No, wait a minute; that won't work. I'm still taking heat from the
Stickman site over trannys. Forget that idea!
–Are you like me?–Do you dream about flying into BKK so cranked on life and dick power that you are not even in your seat; you are on the fucking wing? Yeah, baby; there's an idea. But I think I'll contact Richard Branson
first and see if I can work out some kind of Virgin Airways–Dana deal. I'm a thinker. Screw the website.
–Are you like me? Is every day a constant fight against grinding self pity and soul slashing anger? Yeah that sounds like me but there isn't much Thailand there. Maybe if I added a motorbike accident and a durian plantation and a scene
from Songkran I could flesh it out. Naw, too hard. Whatever I write has to be a true story!
–Are you like me? Have you been to Thailand every six months for the last eleven years and never been beyond the Nana Hotel parking lot? I mean does a junkyard dog leave the meat wagon? Yup, right note card but wrong time. I don't have
the time to develop this right now. This fully developed is my next 600 page social documentary. . . I wonder what other note card submission ideas I have in here . . .
–Are you like me? Do you think Thailand is a paradise and all Thais are living saints? That ain't it. Wrong note card in ten foot letters. What was I on when I made that note? Wait a minute. That is not even my handwriting. That looks
like Uri from Udon's tortured script. I gotta chain her to the bed.
–Are you like me? Have you forgotten to shave your cock and balls until the night before you fly to BKK–so three days into your vacation you start to grow whiskers there?! So you powder the equipment with talcum powder. For the next
10 days when you are banging away the two of you you lose sight of each other in a cloud of white powder. Nope–wrong note card again. Brings back great memories though.
–Are you like me? Do you dream about managing a tranny bar wearing nothing but Boss Hogg's boots and gold nugget waist chain? Great idea but bad timing. Too much Stickman heat. Provincials!
–Are you like me? . . . Eureka! Found it–here is the gleam in the sand . . . . It is writing erection time! I'll just loosen my robe a little bit . . and move the keyboard over. Now to begin: are you like me–do you imagine
that every guy you see in Bangkok who is wearing a helmet needs to get penis reduction surgery? Well I jolly well do and it is based on personal experience. I didn't want to have penis reduction surgery in the same way that you might wake
up in the middle of the night and decide that you would like to have a chocolate chip cookie. I had to have penis reduction surgery! See the problem was that when I got an erection so much of my body's blood would go to my penis (23 inches)
that I would black out. Later after my erection went down I would come to. The Isaan wonder with me always looked happy but I couldn't remember a thing. And sometimes things would happen while I was blacked out that I didn't necessarily
have a high comfort level with. When you wake up and your member is wearing a Barbie doll dress and a little hat you know it is time to talk to a surgeon.
Outside the boudoir this medical anomaly was dangerous. Hey man, this is not funny. We are talking anatomy here. How would you like to be going to your job on the Skytrain and see something with ink black hair, dark skin, neck to ankle black
lycra body suit and long skinny arms? You know what's next. You start growing. Or I did. Every time. If you have the libido of an African elephant in musk and a 23 inch member it is now panic time. Cause you can't stop the blood from
leaving your brain and flowing south. You are going to black out and crash to the floor before you get to Chit Lom. I made so many trips in the back of ambulance songtaews to Bumrungrad Hospital that they gave me a frequent farang discount rate.
Also some little hats.
Hence the helmet. The reason for the helmet was . . . well, you know the reason. People would look at me in my pinstriped Singapore banke's suit, pink silk shirt and pink breast pocket handkerchief and pink crocodile shoes with monogrammed
king cobra briefcase and jade cufflinks and assume that I was an eccentric farang who liked to ride his bike to work. At least that was what I assumed they thought. At any rate the helmet only protected my head when I fell like a tree in public.
Something had to be done. It was surgeon time!
Surgeon hunting turned out to be problematical and frightening. Mention your penis to a surgeon in Thailand and he immediately assumes that you want your best friend to go missing. They stop listening and start filling out paperwork. People
start flouncing in and out of the office telling you that it will ‘be all right'. Holy fuckwad–we need to be careful here! We are looking for penis reduction, not high heel shopping. Something on the order of going from 23 inches
to 10 inches. Of course I still would not be able to go to Cambodia but life is not perfect. Throw a stick in Bangkok and you hit a surgeon. Let your name out that you are a farang with a surgical need and you've got happy cutters up the
wazoo. And of course there is some tension associated with the whole thing. You don't want to make a mistake. Then it happened.
A surgeon interviewed me and he said his name was Dr. Paichoomachaiboonchok Jindarwimaluprapaipasnritun. I didn't know if he was telling me his name or reading me an arrest warrant. Finally, the exquisite tension of waiting was over.
I had found a surgeon that I could believe in. I figured if he could spell his name then surgery would be easy.
I was right and now everything else is right too. No more helmets. And now Skytrain riders can see that my hair is dyed pink to go with my pink crocodile shoes and pink shirt and pink breast pocket handkerchief. There is always time for fashion.
A vaguely familiar writing style.