Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 99
Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes #99
Recently some sharp eyed readers of Stickmanbangkok.com have spotted some possessive apostrophe errors committed by me and they have not been shy in emailing me and aprising me of my grammatical knowledge deficiencies. One gentleman in particular has apparently made it his life's work to search every one of my submissions for apostrophe errors. I guess it is nice to have a mission in life. I imagine him with a magnifying glass and a green eye shade and a goiter in the kerosene lamp lit fifth floor walk up of a burned out building in Stuttgart with a picture of lipsticked Nazi Reichmarshall Hermann Goering on the wall shaking hands with a photoshopped picture of the Fuhrer wearing high heels, makeup, and dancing around a chrome pole. Someday I expect to see him wandering the streets of Pattaya wearing a T-shirt that says, "I Found Another Apostrophe Error In Dana's Submissions–Heil Hitler".
Anyway, the emails I have received on this riveting world crisis apostrophe issue have been a kind of living thesaurus exercise in which I have learned all of the synonyms for the word 'retard'. This does not surprise me since I am not the brightest lightbulb in the hallway. I get most of my story ideas from old WWII military theme comic books, and a retired katoey mamasan just released from Bang Kwang prison (two years served for being ugly) does my typing. So I have obtained a copy of Hodges' Harbrace Handbook 13th edition–an English language primer frightening in it's completeness. However, before settling down to the handbook directives; I happened to pull up 'possessive apostrophe' on the Internet and oh what a world have I found. It seems that the wacky rules regarding the usage of the possessive apostrophe are changing. It seems that the English language is in flux. It seems that it is possible to be right and wrong at the same time. It seems that it is possible to be ignorant and get it right and it seems that it is also possible to get it right for the wrong reasons. And then there are the archaic and modern usages which provide fodder for the grammar police. Even notable 20th century playwright, mathematician, philosopher, moralist, peace protester, writer and fruitarian George Bernard Shaw weighs in on the riveting apostrophe issue and opines that the apostrophe to show possession should be done away with entirely. After all, in the phrase 'Dana's penis sores' it is pretty obvious from the text and probably from the context that the penis sores belong to Dana–who else? Is any reader imagining that the penis sores belong to a soi dog (ok, bad example) or a Walking Street tranny (ok, horrible example) or the local schoolteacher? Of course not. Anyway, you get the point. Please. . . give me a break. Nobody needs this stupid apostrophe thing. I mean the guy in Stuttgart searching my submissions for apostrophe errors might need the apostrophe so that he can make entries in his diary like–"Last night I dreamed about having my nose shoved in Hitler's panties."–but the rest of us don't need it. Thank-you George for stating the obvious (have a piece of fruit)–the apostrophe to show possession is redundant. By the way, as a barely relevant tangential aside; George Bernard Shaw's famous play Man And Superman was really about George in England on his fruit diet and later in Thailand on his viagra diet.
When stuff like this is pointed out about the Thai language we hear words like 'living language' and 'charm' and 'evolutionary linguistic elasticity'. On the other hand when I err I hear words like idiot. You would think that if my rate of correct usage of the possessive apostrophe went from one in 50 (2%) to 3 in 50 (6%) I would hear the word 'improving' but instead what I hear is 'idiot' and then 'still an idiot'. The Stickmanbangcock.com crowd is a tough crowd.
At any rate I am going to make a study of this possessive apostrophe business and hopefully make fewer errors. However, I am not so foolish to think that even If I get it 100% correct in the future it will make much of a difference. I will probably still hear the word idiot.
With that in mind I thought it might be helpful to relate a recent trip that I took to the Thai countryside and use it as a possessive apostrophe exercise. I will include the trip related without the possessive apostrophe and then the trip related with the possessive apostrophe. Remember it is an exercise. I am engaged in self learning.
Title: PHU PONG KA (without using the possessive apostrophe)
We loaded up the two cars with Dims boxes and my backpacks and her brothers beers and her sisters things and headed out. Dims parents live in Amphoe Bung Kan near Phu Tog. Within minutes clouds unloaded their rains on us. We arrived soggy but happy. While the women folk were unloading their things and starting dinner the guys and I went to Phu Pong Ka (Crow's Nest Hill) in the evergreen forest of Amphoe Seka. There we practiced shooting crows using Dims bra as a slingshot. Crows fell like rain and we used Dims mothers underpants to hold them. Coming back to the house with Dims mothers underpants full of dead crows I felt the pride of paleolithic man providing for his family. Crows feet and crows wings and crows breasts were all prepared in different crows ways and we sat and ate fried scorpions heads and frogs legs and snakes skin and roaches wings. God what a feast. After dinner we told personal stories and sang songs and drank whiskey shots from her dad and beers from her brother and of course there were beers for baby that I got a picture of.
Title: PHU PONG KA (using the possessive apostrophe)
We loaded up the two cars' with Dim's boxe's' and m'y backpacks' and her brother's' beers and her sisters' thing(s)' and headed out. Dims' parent's live in Amphoe Bung Kan near Phu Tog. Within minutes' cloud's unloaded their rains' on us('). We arrived soggy but happy. While the women' folk were unloading their things and starting dinner the guys and I went to Phu Pong Ka (Crows' Nest Hill) in the evergreen forest of Amphoe Seka. There we practiced shooting crow(s)' using Dim's bra as a slingshot. Crows fell like rain('s) and we used Dim's mothers' underpants to hold them. Coming back to the house with Dim's mother's underpants full of dead crows I felt the pride of paleolithic man providing for hi's family. Crow's' feet and crows' wings and crow's breasts' were all prepared in different crows' ways' and we sat and ate fried scorpions head's and frog's legs' and snake's' skin and roache's wing(s)'. God what a feast. After dinner we told personal stories' and sang song's' and drank whiskey shots from he'r dad and beers from her brothers'' and of course their were beer's for baby that I got a picture of.
Well, how did I do? Which story did you prefer? Which one is easier to read? I'm trying and I think I am improving. I'm not smart about these things so I am still on the grammatical fence (ouch that hurts) about which version reads best. So please don't ask me to make a choice. However, I do know where you can buy some "I Found Another Apostrophe Error In Dana's Submissions" T-shirts if you are interested.
Oh, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking this does not really concern you because you are never going to have penis sores so you really do not need to know how to use the possessive apostrophe. Oh contraire my Thai scene enthusiast soulmate. One introduction by me of my boardwalk cruising South Pattaya friend Fa to you and you are going to tumble down the well of love like a rag doll down a mine shaft. And you are going to get penis sores baby. Multicolored bleeders and weepers and itchers. You'll be dumping so much talcolm powder in your pants it'll look like your dick is doing heroin. But there is an upside. We could do some male bonding. You know, get together and compare our penis sores. Maybe flip a coin to see who will write a submission about it and send it in to Stick.
But that is not really what I want to talk about today. What I want to talk about today is a woman that was a killer of men's' souls, a wounder, a force field of sexuality with more primal energy than the molten nickel-iron core at the center of the earth. The story is entitled:
Goldfinger said, "Mr Bond, they have a saying in Chicago: Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action"–Ian Fleming
The first time I saw Oi she was up on a stage with other girls. This was back in 1988 when you could see something on stage. What I saw this night was 50 naked girls with aluminum foil antlers and battery operated Christmas tree lights wrapped around their bodies. A couple of days before I had seen vendors coming in with boxes of stuff for the mamasan and the owner but I hadn't really taken notice. Now I could see the Santa hats on the waitresses and the shiny antlers and the colored flashing lights. The girls were wearing garlands of tingling silver bells on their boots and as wristlets and necklaces. Christmas in Bangkok. After an unintelligible announcement in Thai the DJ had put on Phil Spector's Christmas album and out of the dressing room had come a conga line of 50 naked women dancing to Frosty the Snowman by the Ronettes. Inexpertly kicking from side to side, holding onto the hips of the woman in front, dancing around the whole bar, and then up onto the stage. And from the dressing room door to the stage every girl was smiling. Back in 1988 the girls were smiling. It was fun. Well, in 1988 I had acquired the boring expat patina of ‘the guy who knew stuff'. Been there–done that. Could top any story anyone told. But that night looking at the girls on stage and the lights and the smiles and the corny antlers I just had my breath taken away. One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life.
Out of 50 girls Oi stood out like a beacon. Tall and leggy and thin and molded and dark and smiling with bright eyes. She was the Alpha Woman. Hadn't heard the word ‘No' from another human being since she was 14 years old. Sold herself but never diminished herself. The CEO of sex commerce with passport stamps from Denmark and Ceylon and Britain and Australia and America and Sweden and Germany. Used the bar as a maildrop and job reference and girl's club. On this night she was in town though and she was up on stage. Most arresting woman I have ever seen. One half of her head was shaved and covered with tattoos and the other half of her head was a single braid that tickled her rear. Black heels and black toenails and black finger nails and black lipstick. All of her jewelry was black coral–necklaces and anklets and wristlets and chains and rings. And there in front waving with the ponderousness of promise a big black strap-on dildo. Back in 1988 most of the pole huggers and Bangkok shufflers and Isaan pretenders did not even know what a dildo was. Oi knew. So did I. I could feel my anus muscles relaxing.
I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She felt the incoming man meat vibrations and started to swivel her head–homing in on the sucker. The bar was packed. Farangs shoulder to shoulder–but she found my worshiping eyes and locked on to me like a Serengeti hyena staring at a rat. But I was immune. I was an experienced ex-pat. No way was I going to fall for this scene. This kind of woman was strictly for looking at and I knew it. Barfining her would be like throwing myself into an emotional blender and all that would come out would be soul puree. I knew that. So I was just going to look. Woman like this are piranhas. Killers. Wounders. Life ruiners. And it is not even their fault. If you had 10,000 times more power you'd be leaving messes behind too. Can't be helped. So I just looked. And smiled. And she smiled. Because I imagine I have the strength of the wise experienced farang I drop my guard. She smiles at me. I smile back. We share eye stuff. Smiling. Eventually I decide to go because I realize I better go. But first I walk up to the stage and give her a 100baht tip. She weis me. Up close I can see that she has gold glitter on her teeth and her breasts and the dildo. Jesus Mary and Joseph what a woman. On the way out of the bar I can see her waving to me in the bars wall mirror. I turn and wave back. BIG MISTAKE. We will call that the Happenstance!
The next day I am dressed in cheap charlie broken strap foam sandals and a Tweety Bird T-shirt I stole from Poom and blue surgeons' pants some girl left in my room. The beauty of this outfit is that I am in my own little cacoon of fashion faux pas. No tuk tuks are going to ask if I want to go to a gem shop–the taxis don't even slow down–and the local girls know that it is 500baht max and I want a full strip and full shower and anal and we will be at a room in the Rajah with no bed and no hot water 'cause I get a discount. It is the hot season, it is the afternoon, and the streets and the sidewalks are empty. I look like what I am–a middle aged, short, slightly beaten up farang. I'm standing on the curb eating chicken on a stick when someone slams into me. The 50baht piece of chicken breast goes flying and I turn around with chicken in my mouth like a dog caught under the table. It is Oi. The woman from the bar. The woman from last night. And I didn't need her to be pressing her dildo in my crotch on this hot Soi 4 afternoon to recognize her. The rat can't forget the hyena that let him go. I am frozen in space and time. I forget everything. Her Van Allen belt of magnetism is so strong that parts of my body are overwhelmed and start shutting down. I start to go blind, I can't make my mouth work and slur my words, my body starts to sway like an aspen. But I stand my ground. All of the expat knowledge in me is telling me to ‘Run–run like the wind'. But I don't. My lips are moving. I must be saying something. Her lips are moving–she must be saying something. She steps closer and puts her hand on my arm. I can smell pathouli oil musk. Lots of it. She is wearing sandals and a neck to ankle fishnet stocking with holes and rips and slashes in it. Under the fishnet she is naked except for pink pasties and a pink G string. Pink lipstick and pink nails and pink coral jewelry. On her head she is wearing a crooked pink baseball cap. The off center braid goes out the hole in the back and at the end of the braid is a pink ribbon. Jesus Fuck what a woman! You want to see the Pope write love letters? Introduce him to Oi. And I ain't no pope. Eventually we part. That was the Coincidence!
That night I can't sleep and I find out I can't please myself either. I can't do anything. I have lost control of my mind and I have lost control of my body. But I do have enough brain tissue left to know that under no circumstances should I ever come in contact with this knee trembler again. She is a destroyer. A panzer division of sex that would roll over me like a tank over a snake. I am not worthy. You don't go into unequal battles. You run. The military calls it retreating. Farangs in Thailand call it 'running for your fucking life'. Literally. Because once one of these honeys is through with your heart and your mind and your wallet you are useless for everything–even fucking. Hear that sound? It's the Alcoholism train coming! She will kiss you all over and then rip your pride to shreds. Without pride you'll have no problem with begging. But there is never a second chance. She is already boarding the plane for Dubia or Montreal or Paris. She has already forgotten you and you will never forget her. An hour later I am up shaving. I get to the bar around midnight. I tell myself I don't want to see her. I just could not keep myself from coming. Insignificant man matter being sucked into her black hole of sex. The place is packed with farang more handsome and younger and healthier and richer than me. I am safe. Then I look at the stage.
There up on stage is a sight that I have never seen before and that I instinctively know that I will never see again. There are about 20 girls surrounding Oi and they are clapping in time to a Cossack folk song that the DJ is playing. And there in the center of the stage and surrounded by the girls Oi has her arms folded across her chest and she is squatted down and she is kicking out like a Russian peasant at a wedding. You simply can't imagine anything more foreign to Southeast Asia than the Russian folk dance. Or more difficult. It is a dance that brags of enormous strength and athleticism and stamina and balance. And she is doing it with a blinding smile as if to say, "All this and I can relax too!" Obviously there is a Russian stamp in her passport. The smiling and the athleticism is attention getting but what has the packed crowd of men from all over the world stunned into silence is the display of pussy. There stage center surrounded by the clapping naked women Oi's squatted down and kicking out in a way to display pussy that no one has ever seen before and no one has ever dreamed of seeing before. But Oi dreamed it. She dreamed it as soon as she saw overdressed peasants in Russia do it. No strap-on dildo tonight. Just glistening sweating pussy lips and a crotch running with fluid. I can feel the stabbing pains coming in the tops of my eyes and the short shallow breathing off the tops of my lungs. God is giving me a gift tonight during this Christmas season that I had never dreamed. I am witnessing sex incarnate the Devil couldn't improve on as lure. If Doestevesky had seen something like this he wouldn't have wasted time writing Brothers Karamazov; he'd have written something called Sisters of Fuck–the only thing the world really cares about.
She hasn't seen me so I am safe. I can leave anytime. I am in control of my destiny. Time goes by . . . Then I feel it. The touch. On my shoulder. I turn. She is in front of me. No smile. Just eyes. The third time it is Enemy Action.
I'm a dead man walking.
Now that you've got the apostrophes sorted out, perhaps a career as a Bangkok English teacher beckons?