Stickman Readers' Submissions November 3rd, 2007

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 200


mens clinic bangkok

"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off – then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me." novel Moby Dick (1851)–Herman Melville

And so was writ large and everlasting the Western man's Thai monger anthem and delight that presaged today's Thailand and Thai matters for the farang by one hundred years and fifty six years. Thailand was known as Siam back then; and a smile was a smile, and a time increment was a while, and a sarong was a tailor's nemesis. The glory days of Siamese innocence, and tropical passion, and unexamined mating were the social fossils of the future. A future of change, and disappointment, and emotional denouement for everyone.

And so with me. I have enjoyed writing and thinking about the Land of Smiles, and the gigabytes of wiles, and the soaring and dipping of emotional albatross and petrel and gull. But it is coming to an end. Everything goes until it stops; and I now find that the channeled, fevered, productive, smile inducing writing of the past is more likely to be replaced by the delights of a gin-and-tonic as I focus uncertainly on the keyboard or an orchid I can see in the window box. The barometer is dropping, and the land breeze is being replaced by a sea breeze; and the wily keyboard mariner knows that change is coming. Best to look at the chafing bits at the bow, and calculate lee shore moves to be able to soldier on. I expect to keep visiting Thailand as the sea turtle keeps lumbering ashore at the same beach, and for the same reasons; but I do not expect to have much more to say. My egg laying days are done. Hopefully some of my wildly flaying progeny will make it from sand to shore to cold welcome water and live on in literary swimming.

You can only dig so much meat out of a conch shell before you hear the scraping sound of metal on bone and you know that the bottom of the well has been plumbed. This submission entitled: MADNESS OF LOVE is my last submission and I hope it brackets the less contemplative and more youthful submissions of many years ago. Good luck to you Stickmanites and remember: none of it is real, and none of it really counts in the Kingdom unless your heart is fully engaged.

So forget about the predatory, and the ego, and the story; just look her in the eyes, and listen to her when she sighs, and be alert to the glory. God, even the god you might not believe in; is smiling at you in the Kingdom. Just let the cosmic neutrinos of love rip through you and leave in their mysterious wake an open heart and an open mind. And then you'll be able to say: "She walked on golden sands–every word borne on gossamer wings–like a daffodil in an English breeze–she tipped her head–and said when I walked in . . . 'man's home'

'Man's Home'–no more powerful potion. It trumps every visual clue. The blind man's equalizer and the start of every love day new. If you are in Thailand you are not normal. Like Ishmael who survived by clinging to a bursting-from-the-depths-coffin; you are surviving by clinging to a bursting-from-the-past Siam. Thailand may be Siam's indecent sister but a flawed diamond is still a diamond, and a god with a limp is still a god. So be happy with your caroming off the Kingdom status, and be happy with your farang plight. You are one of the lucky ones. You are one of the witnesses to paradise. You got to participate. You got to say: "I remember when".

And so me: I got to say "I remember when" by writing and writing and writing. And so this last submission entitled:


wonderland clinic

Chapter One: Johannesburg, South Africa

Chapter Two: The Registration Center

Chapter Three: Bunny Boots and Briefcases

Chapter Four: United Nations Report

Chapter Five: Interpol

Chapter Six: Notes From Antarctica Meeting

Chapter Seven: Reverse Evolution

Chapter Eight: United Nation's Log

Chapter Nine: Testament and Promise


( . . . literary curtain opens . . . )


Ever take a long bread knife after a meal and just press it down hard on the table and sweep the crumbs and meal debris onto the floor? That's what happened to the top of Table Mountain in Johannesburg, South Africa at the beginning of the great war. Gigantic open pit mine bulldozers, and controlled burns, and helicopter gunships from fifteen nations working in concert with the host country and the United Nations removed all housing, and commercial buildings, and infrastructure, and animals, and plants, and people. The top of Table Mountain was swept clean. Resisters were shot. The land was salted and bleached. Tourist brochures in South Africa will tell you that 'The panorama (from Table Mountain) stretches from Table Bay to False Bay and around the mountain to the Hout Bay Valley and Kommetjie'. But none of the activity on top of Table Mountain at the beginning of the great war was about the view.

Landing strips were installed, air space was secured, and underground bunkers were built. Then came concertina wire, and dogs, and lights, and defensive ground-to-air missiles. South Africa the host country was then notified by Interpol and the United Nations that different air corridors would be in effect during the registration process. Security measures were tight but not draconian. This was not the meeting place, only the registration center. The meeting place would be far to the south under the cover of the Aurora Australis lit polar night.


A plague was afoot and world leaders and world organizations were putting together an army. Professional soldiers, and citizen soldiers, and noncombatants (snitches) were needed in every country by the millions. The Table Mountain registration center only wanted to know two things:

1. Who are you?

2. How many people do you control?

Example: My name is Pimwee and I am the federation leader of the tribes on the south side of the Rio Jurua river in western Brazil. I control 712 people.

Example: My name is Marco–underground union leader of Paraguay and I control 14,000 people.

Example: My name is Min Lek and I am a mamasan that controls 29 Thai-only brothels in northern Thailand . I control over 1900 Thais including girls and assorted employees and family members. They obey or they starve.

Example: My name is Big John Texas and I control over 17,000 employees and their families through my assorted oil and gas wells, and cracking plants, and distribution centers. I have never laid an employee off. They will walk through fire for me. Who are we fighting?

Example: My name is Neha Sherawat, the most popular opera star of India, and I can influence millions and millions and millions of people. I can promise all of India's five major religions will come together to fight this scourge.

Example: My name is Boris Tarasov of Pattaya. I control all of the mototaxis from Soi 10 to Walking Street and up to Third Road. I expect to recruit 423 riders and their allegiance to me, and to Interpol, and to South Africa the host country, and to the United Nations, and to the citizens of the world is complete. We welcome the opportunity to help purge the world of this pestilence. I also have wholesale stingray wallets for sale.

Defensive measures taken in South Africa were only what was necessary. The registration process was not the main event. It was just names and numbers. Who could be depended upon, and in what numbers, and in what parts of the world, and with what resources to fight the scourge? Registration facilitators and managers were careful to make sure that not too many people were landing, or taking off, or counseling at the same time. However, the gathering place was another thing entirely.


The largest desert in the world also has the lowest (per anything) native population–zero. The interior high dry polar plateau desert fastness was the ideal place for the world's most important meeting. Research scientists from sixteen research stations were removed, and the whole continent went into total lock down mode. From remote and trivial Bellinghausen and Macquire, to coastal huggers like McMurdo and Mawson and the Dumont d'Urville; research stations were all evacuated. Russian and British stragglers were shot. Research is the plaything of stable societies. A scourge from Thailand was challenging the world. Difficulty of access meant secure airspace; and no place was more totally guarded and safe. A gathering place for the ages got to by transporting oneself to Punta Arenas, Chile; and then flying and praying to Palmer Station. God bless the charged particles of Aurora Australis. God bless Antarctica.

ICBM proof concrete lined Buckminster Fuller era domes lead to underground ice bunkers with every convenience for the world's leaders. And for the first time in the history of the Earth no political parameters were placed on who could come to a meeting. The only requirement was that you be a leader with dominion over some of the Earth's people. Nothing else mattered. Terrorists sat beside victims, Jews sat beside Christians, Buddhists sat beside pornographers, and Thai gem scam touts sat next to marks. . . it didn't matter what your record was as a human or what you espoused. The only thing that mattered was that you had influence over people: you were a leader who people would listen to and you loved your people. Or you didn't love your people. But the people would listen to you. And so they came and so they deplaned from all over the world in their big military style white rubber bunny boots carrying their big important briefcases full of speeches and paperwork and fear. Every one of them looking pregnant with manly and womanly importance and every one of them scared witless. Charged particles, hearts full of fear, and an uncertain future; the great triumvirate of a meeting inexorably tied to the future.


The reason for the meeting? A worldwide phenomenon was afoot that was, depending on your point-of-view; growing like a cancer or growing like a yeast. Cancer is a death sentence. Yeast is a food. There wouldn't be any meeting of the minds on this, or middle way of the Yogi, or negotiated peace settlement with photo opportunity pictures, or books later issued on the beauties of compromise, or non-confrontational Thai smiles to smooth the rough spots of social interaction. A battle was glimmering on the horizon line of history that would make the downward spiraling vortex of chaos in your toilet bowl look like a butterfly landing on a tulip.


What was this phenomenon that had world leaders of disparate ideologies banding together in the harmony of fear? Danaism. That's right: Danaism was, like the infestation of the future, afoot in the land and worming into the hearts and minds of humans. Originally born of the fourth spiral arm of the Torndule galaxy it was now on Earth. Danaism, the watchword and the soul ingot of the ego supreme, was now growing in power and influence in every bamboo and thatch village, and forest tribe, and suburban home, and Hi-So glass towered monument to mammon. Danaism was now the greatest single threat to the powers-that-be and the greatest unionizer of unlike minds in history.

Danaism: originally of stardust origin; most recently incubated in Thailand, was now not even pan-Asian. It was worldwide and growing. Using the plastic smile culture of modern Siam as a host, the parasite fed and waited until it was time to abandon the chrysalis and fly. Goodbye Thailand–hello world.

Finally, Interpol got involved. Telephone calls were made, and meetings were held, and office space was leased to coordinate the worldwide investigation. Experts in issues, and personalities, and experts in Haitian voodoo, and mental illness, and religious mental aberrations, and cults, and health counseling, and suicide prevention, and issues of hero and personality worship, and experts with wildly divergent opinions on Danaism were all brought to bear on the worldwide problem.

To wit: recently there had been a global increase in the number of individuals involved in self flagellation, interior downward spiraling of ego, idol worship, and bedroom alter construction. Normal fixation of celebrity or societal heroes was ordinary and attracted no attention; but these incidents now coming in from Canada, and Honduras, and Tasmania, and Germany, and the highlands of New Guinea, and Adelaide, and Bora Bora, and west Greenland, and Japan, and one hundred and eighty other countries now had the appearance of a disturbing groundswell of mental aberration and unhealthy individual fixation that best be looked into. Government leaders and the money men behind the governments were disturbed, and puzzled, and frightened. The participants in Danaism were not talking, or no longer capable of forming basic verbal social constructs. Their new world of love unrequited had taken over. They had become monsters. Lovers of Dana. Danaists. Empty ego shells filled to bursting with love for someone who would never love them back. The world had never seen the like before.

Example: Year 2017–Country: Brazil–City: Recife

–Finally too many calls had come in to the precinct police station to be ignored so a cruiser was sent to the suburban address. From the street no sound could be heard and no clue espied. But once inside the front door that fell open to the policeman's baton a spooky voodoo far away chanting, and murmuring, and grunting, and moaning, and breathy desperate screeching could be heard coming from the hall that led to the bedrooms.

There were three bedroom doors but one of them was warm to the touch, and had faint acrid tendrils of smoke escaping between the door and the door frame. Pushing open the bedroom door visited upon the police a vision of horror and assumed insanity of such magnitude that one of them fainted dead away. Went down like a tree. The figure inside the bedroom heard nothing. A continuous sound system loop of wave crashing sounds, and small animals crying, and soi dogs barking, and a human gasping for air blocked out all outside influences and made a cell of altered sanity and fevered worship of the bedroom.

The walls and the ceiling were covered with hundreds of pictures of Dana in all photo sizes. Dana exiting the Nana Hotel, and Dana with girls, and Dana getting off the plane at Don Muang, and Dana checking into the AA Hotel in Pattaya, and Dana cruising the boardwalk near Soi 13/0, and Dana entering the Internet 24/7 chat room near Soi 10, and Dana in Chiang Mai riding an elephant, and Dana going down the Ping river on a bamboo raft, and Dana in a bathing suit emerging from the pool at the Nana Hotel, and Dana eating lunch at Foodland on Soi 5 in Bangkok. Hundreds of close up and telephoto color and black-and-white images taken without authorization, and affixed to the interior alter of the Brazilian suburban tract house bedroom. A temple of fixation and obsession and love. In addition to the pictures of Dana there were hundreds of printed out copies of application forms for the Dana Fan Club all filled out and stuck to the walls and strewn about the floor and used as pillow and mattress stuffing.

Various dead and dying animals hung from hooks and were impaled on the walls, the air was thick with incense and smoke, and the floor was covered with dirt, and bits of sharp glass, and feathers, and bones, and wet glistening boogers, and clumps of hair. The figure kneeling before a candle alter was naked except for a Nana Hotel restaurant napkin loin cloth. Rings with Dana's face sculpted in silver adorned the toes, and the fingers, and the lips, and the nose, and the eyelids, and the earlobes, and the belly button, and the scrotum of the gaunt aged El Greco figure. Around his neck hung a sign that said in dried blood letters:


From the neckline to the wrists, and down to the tops of the feet; the body was adorned with crude self administered tattoos of Dana. There was a laminated silver framed picture of Dana in back of the candles on the bedroom alter. The picture was a cross with a modern figure stabbing Dana in the side with a bamboo pole. The figure with the pole was crying and Dana on the cross looked calm and exultant. The figures in the painting wave and flicker in the pungent light of one hundred candles but their essences remain. One is the supplicant–the other is the unresponsive well of love.

The sound of the kneeling figure's crying is spasmodic and without time or ego. A mammal who has lost the touchstone of it's species in the immolation of love for another. Love that will never be returned. The back of the figure is slashed and bleeding from chains and lengths of barbed wire self administered in joyful flagellation; and the bottoms of the feet are cut and bleeding from the white pea gravel and cut shards of glass on the bedroom floor. Arterial bleeding is a death sentence, all else is a gift of love. The smell of blood, and tears, and feathers, and bones, and urine soaked loin cloth, and incense, and candle wax, and dead and dying animals, and photos turning brown and curling with age is the smell of love unreturned. Altered sanity as the salve for the tortured soul.

As the Recifean police officers move to step into the room their vantage point changes and they can see the face of the man in the mirror.

It is the face of . . . well, the face is not really important. Some tragedies exceed the trivia of specific humanity. Sometimes sadness and pity trump all else. So thought the police in this home in this east coast city of South America's largest country. They just shut the door, walked back down the bedroom hallway, and exited the house. A departmental report was made but no news bulletin was issued. No city agencies, or volunteer groups, or churches, or mental health counselors were notified. The police officers had seen excess and they had identified it as beyond themselves. But they had misjudged. Where they saw individual madness–others worldwide saw emotional need incandescent and powerful. Today that self-same prisoner of unrequited love is probably still swaying and moaning before the alter of Dana in a room full of reminders of something that will never happen. Love from Dana. Don't pity him. He is one of the lucky ones. He will receive the final invitation.–


"So–what is so worrying about personal desires and personal choices in the privacy of one's own home? In theory, nothing; but the world does not run on theory, the world runs on power. The power to influence, and the power to tax, and the power to intimidate, and the power to lead. The problem that concerns world leaders and the invisible men behind the world leaders is that these worshipers of Dana can not be influenced, or taxed, or intimidated, or led. They will join no armies, and they will sing no patriotic songs, and they will pay no taxes, and they will wave no flags, and they will march in no parades, and they will marry no women, and they will support no vote issues, and they will show up at no rallies, and they will laugh at no jokes. Don't even mention condoms. Their interior emotional and spiritual landscape is complete and self-sufficient. They have slipped the surly bonds of rationality, and needless peer pressure, and absurd materialism, and silly mainstream striving, and useless preoccupation with time, and nut house competitive urges; and left behind the tawdry concerns of silly humans. Give them a brass begging bowl and an orange robe and they could masquerade as Buddhists. But they are not Buddhists. They are Danaists. They lay at the spiritual interface of water and shore and let the liquid soothing waves of Danaism wash over them. They are no longer of this Earth. And having left the Earth they are ready for the final frontier of reverse evolution. Buddhism preaches Nirvana through forward and upward spiritual progress. Danaism offers salvation through reverse cosmic transmigration. Hence the shore gatherings of millions of advance worshipers and time travelers all over the world. One foot on the beach and one foot in the water they wait for the final sign. Beyond influence, beyond taxation, beyond fear."

This was part of the message sent to world leaders as a warning, and an explanation, and a call-to-arms as a result of the meeting many miles south and west of Palmer Station in Antarctica. It was the cornered rat's squeak masquerading as a call to war. Witless world leaders faced with the inner demon of their own inferiority. If they rounded a building and bumped into Dana it would be power-to-influence checkmate; and every single one of them knew that.

Inattentive fools were seduced by the 'gone-to-ground' and 'off-the-grid' reality sponsored by no recent Dana sightings; but governments, and Dana hunters, and Dana worshipers were not fooled. It was simply the Waiting Time. Astronomical speculators like to pontificate about the moment of the Big Bang. Big words and flashy cocktail chatter for the college crowd: but deeper thinkers and cosmic time travelers know that before the Big Bang was the Waiting Time–all of it preordained by dark matter dimensions and calculators beyond our ability to even speculate.

But great and powerful influencers most comfortable with philosophies and actions of impulse, and mammon, and self-interest, and violence can sometimes stumble across simple ideas; and this was the idea that the bunny boot snow crunching crowd from aurora australis nights had taken back to their respective governments, and tribes, and cultures, and string pullers, and financiers.

'Dana was amongst us and his destiny was not the destiny of humans.'

Like ancient mariners instinctively presaging a coming storm by paying attention to the rising hairs on the backs of their necks; the world leaders and world influencers were playing their own waiting game–waiting for Dana to appear. There are only two kinds of actors: pro-active and reactive. They needed Dana to step on stage for the drama to start.


Just as the Universe will someday finally start the great gradual reversing that will bring it once again to it's Big Bang implosion starting point; Danaites responding to Danaism were waiting for the sign to wade back into the water and leave Homo Sapienism behind. Every system peaks before the final inexorable downward spiral of entropy and chaos begins, and Dana's visit on Earth had been the final pinprick peak of human evolution. There was no final mutation, or adjustment, or improvement possible. There was no Patong beach rainbow, or Doi Suthep sunrise, or Mekhong River mist future that held a bigger dream or a bigger pleasure or a bigger future. Trivial night time mental meanderings on the third rock from the sun had no landscape or spiritual touchpoints to attract attention or give hope. The only thing left was reversal. The time had come. It was Dana Time.

Dana speaks:

"Reverse evolution? Is this reverse evolution or evolution? Was it evolution to go from stardust, and cosmic gases, and dark matter thoughts, and time killing pressures, and neutrino conundrums to carbon based life forms? The Universe is still laughing at that one. Pleeeeeze. Carbon based life forms. What a joke! Come with me and we will wade into the sea and back in time to purer moments. Moments of primary numbers, and primary colors where no improvement is possible. But for the time being we will call it reverse evolution so that you will be able to explain it to your friends: carbon based life forms that think children have value, and shopping with coupons shows intelligence, and deodorant is a necessity. Bring your friends. Few will survive the journey but the footprints on the beach will give courage to others. Even in the Universe it is always a numbers game."

Dana had not been seen or heard from for years and his silence had simply augmented his memory and further mythologized his ascent to godhead status. If he was hiding out in the mountain gorges of Pakistan, or the boring jungle west of Sanglaburi, or huddling under fallen trees in Amazonia, or tipping over rocks for bugs in the Philippine archipelago, or hiding in a Khao Sok cave, or smoking big bongs with a hermit in Mai Sai it did not matter. Neither did it matter if his life form was losing warmth and future and handing back atomic energies to the Universe. The die had been cast and the wheel had turned. The Church of Dana had been wiped out by frightened governments, and the Dana Fan Club had been hounded into hiding; but Dana and Danaism lived on in the hearts of the visionaries and the worshippers who knew that the path of personal salvation and happiness lead back to the sea. But it was a cold lonely road even in the hot and humid incubator of Thailand. Only the tough would survive and it was a tough love journey. You loved Dana. He did not love you. Reciprocal love was the human invention that marked the Earth's inhabitants as not even worth a pit stop to cosmic travelers. Only the weak expect love as some kind of social currency. Danaism was a one way road of worship and need. You got what you wanted, and you got what you needed; and you received more than you could have dreamed by consorting with humans. A declaration of hierarchy and need never more clearly stated than in one of his last messages to the faithful.

We Will Meet In Opposition

"In a particle accelerator some particles race side by side. Shared experiences in time. Having a life experience like this can be seductive but delusional. It is not the most intense experience available to you. The most intense experience available to you is always when you see a sign through the windshield on a dark night that says THE END. Similarly at Cern, sometimes particles of opposition are introduced. As speeds of imminent immolation increase so does the experience deepen. Imagine yourself before the contact–total embolistic fear. Fear? Shouldn't it be acceptance? Particle accelerators and physics experiments at Cern. What a joke. Legos for the limited desperately looking for order when entropy and randomness are the sex acts of infinity. To state the obvious: You and I are not equal. You are ordinary. I am on the way to god status.

You are the issue of parental loins that thought voting was important, and that trees want to be hugged, and that whales should be saved. Saving whales! What a joke: more carbon based life forms the Universe laughs at. The Cosmos doesn't need whales and trees: it needs neutrinos that can polka, and photons that can sing, and Thai women on every planet. Whales are at the top of the food chain. Knocking off the top of the food chain has little effect on the hierarchy of life. More emotional and carbon based life form stupidity. Carbon. What a joke. Do you think any intelligent life in the Universe is made of carbon? Please . . . it is gases, and pressure, and heat, and Thai women that leads to life form diversity and intelligence. You know a bar on Soi 11 in Bangers (aren't you clever) where the girls wear kneepads and they have had their teeth taken out to serve the customers; and you have a well respected model train set in the basement of your house in Chonburi; and you gave a talk at the Pattaya Expat Club on the morals/ethics regarding stem cell research? Just shut up. Shut up before I rip out your tongue. Give you a head start on reverse evolution. You are not going to need a tongue as you wade into the sea and start your journey backwards in time. I'll show you dark matter, and let you slide down the cone of space-time around the lip of a black hole, and introduce you to a star nursery. Talk. You'll forget that nonsense. And you will dream of becoming me.

We are not equal. I am on the way to god status. A stardust cosmic traveler without blood or hope or time. Think about it: no blood or hope or time. Freedom. We will meet in opposition. A living Cern experiment for you, a trivial neutrino slicing through for me. It can not be any other way. But neither will you wish for anything else–the physics of reverse evolution, and Danaism, and a cold indifferent cosmic hand clutching your heart is your salvation. I am from the dark side of the Torndule galaxy in the fourth spiral of the Gorndorf nebula arm. My stay on Earth will be short but your name is on the list. You owe me love and you will deliver it unto me. The moment of our meeting in an altered state of immolation for you and a time-space hiccup for me will be your moment of glory. You can not prepare for this, only accept. Acceptance is your salvation.

You are a part of reverse evolution now. Just follow the others. Don't bother speaking–you have nothing to say. And don't worry that your past public and private bleatings and embarrassments of self absorption will be held against you. Your job is to follow–not to think, or feel, or apologize. Gluttony, Greed, Vanity, Lust, Wrath, Sloth, and Envy? No surprises there. You are carbon based. It can never have been any other way. But Dana is here and salvation is nigh. Nothing will be held against you. Nothing you did in your tiresome mammalian sojourn on Earth counted. Your past and present social slobberings will not be held against you. They had no value. They were never bead counted on the Universe abacus. Only I counted. You are now a part of me. And I am stardust. I'm not your father, and I'm not your friend, and I don't love you. I am the future. Follow.

I'll meet you

Where the land meets the sea.

Footprints in sand for you–

Release from Earth for me.


(Binders Six and Seven, Red Series 4, Interpol Security Code OAJDF9: Subject–Plague Data and International Directives–Highest Urgency: STC.

Attn: Nations of the Earth–The United Nations thinks you can see why the responsible people of the world are concerned and why emails, and snail mails, and text messages, and satellite transmissions, and mamasan phone calls are streaming into Interpol offices at the Registration Center on top of Table Mountain in Johannesburg.

Something has to be done. Danaism of this influence, and ilk, and mind seizing power can not be allowed to run amok, and dilute minds, and tear hearts asunder, and cause a dip in Nana Plaza bar trade. So if you know of anyone in your family, or in your life, or in your village who seems to have fallen under the influence of Dana report it immediately. Be part of the solution. Take responsibility for the human family. And if one of those people is you contact the webmaster of immediately. He is cooperating fully with all village, municipal, national, international, mafia, and expat organizations. If you, or a friend, or a family member, or an acquaintance are staggering around in your home with glistening boogers hanging out of your nose, and stuffing your pillow with shredded Dana submissions, and scratching Dana tattoos onto your chest with the pointed end of a Chang beer bottle opener, and crying spasmodically while starring into a candle lit mirror you may need help. Either that or you are an Australian.


My name is Dana and Danaism is here. Danaism, the watchword and the soul ingot of the ego supreme is no longer of the past or the future. Born in the Torndule galaxy and incubated in modern Siam; it now flies on gossamer wings of cut crystal cult to every corner of the world. Gather at the shore and wait for the signal and we will wade back in Time together. Your briny immolation in Danaism will set you free, and your love of me will cut the cord to the human species. The trivial social experiment on Earth called people is over. It peaked with me. Now we can leave the lab and return to simpler times and cosmic gases. Reverse evolution–you and me. Gather at the shore, and wait for the signal; and we will wade back in Time together. I will take you to a Land of Smiles beyond your most fevered imaginings. I will deliver to you the Madness of Love and you will know what it means to be on the road to Poona. That is my promise to you.

Stickman's thoughts:

200 submissions, a monumentous achievement. The question that must now be asked is whether this is the end of an era?

nana plaza