Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 250

PREAMBLE AND GOODBYE

Attn: Stickmanbangkokites and Dana Fans–

Final retirement notice. And I ain't kiddin' folks. This 100% true story that updates my life with Fa titled: FA'S ON THE LOOSE is my final song. I'm now an official fat lady and the fat lady has sung. My Stickmanbangkok.com
writing career is over. I came in as a pinwheeliing homeless asteroid and that's how I'll go out. I'm too pooped to dribble. My race is run.

What now? Well, I have just signed a two year contract with the Pattayamail newspaper to do bi-weekly restaurant reviews. Based on my body of work they wanted to sign me to a ten year contract but I figure two years is fifty restaurants.
How many fine dining experiences can there be in Pattaya? Anyway, Fa is going to go on all these restaurant review trips and help me. Wish us luck. I will order the most interesting of fine dining dishes from Thai and Japanese and Vietnamese and
Indian and Korean and Philippine and Irish and English and Dutch and German and Swiss and French and Italian and American and Tex-Mex places and she will order fried crickets and Essan 'soup' (roadkill plus dishwater plus chilis) in
every goddamned place.

I have also purchased as a post Stickmanbangkok.com writing career project an Immigration checkpoint on the Thai-Cambodia border. I did this because Pattaya Gary told me it would be a good investment. Hard not to notice, however, that he
just bought a condo in Angeles City. Not too sure about all of this. I'm kinda lost when I'm not writing.

And what has the final tally been after two hundred and fifty stories and essays under the Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes banner?

Writing prizes awarded — zero
Money earned — zero
Friends made — fingers and toes
Lessons learned — a couple
Respect from other writers — highway smear
Need for Viagra — no change
Carpel tunnel syndrome — getting
closer

Hemorrhoids — getting closer
Lower back pain — a new friend
Increased knowledge of how to use the computer — zilch
Improvement in writing — a lot.

I've got another twenty stories all ready written and pinned up on the storyboard but 250 seems like a nice retirement number. Don't know what I'll do with the left over stories. I suppose I could sell them to other submissions
writers with writer's block. One thousand dollars per story would be at least twenty thousand dollars and that would equal approximately 1428 five hundred baht boom booms. Just thinking. I'm a thinker.

Anyway, good luck to all of us. See ya 'round the boardwalk. And remember:

Who loves ya?
Dana Does
_________

P.S. — If I can just share something from my heart: there is a woman of Essan background named Fon. She is not a human but an angel that has been sent down from heaven to give me hope. I am not worthy to crawl in her shadow, but I am going
to try and meet her. It may be time to graduate from Fa to Fon. Tears are almost bursting from eyes as I write this but such is life. She (Fon) has a stupid husband but I am sure he will recognize my greater need. It's all about the love.
As the following story FA'S ON THE LOOSE shows, it may be (well, I'll say it again) time to graduate from Fa to Fon. Let me know what your instincts are on this.

If Fon and I do hook up that may trigger another 250 submissions. Love does that. Ideally submission number 500 would be all about our wedding. Her stupid husband; Mr. Stupidhead, El Stupido, The Stupid One, Kuhn Mr. Stoop, would be the best
man and Dean Barrett's archived photos of Fon on his website (and in his extensive private collection) would be made into wedding invitations. It's all cookies and cream in my future–but first she has to open her arms and smile at me.
My future, and possibly submissions 251-500, teeter on Fon. Wish me luck. Wish us luck. And tell her husband what he needs to do. It's all about the love.

No more pigs
And chickens for Fon.
We'll live on Mount Everest.
Her old life gone.

We'll live in an ice palace
Made of diamonds, and emeralds, and pearls–
I'll be her farang husband.
She'll be my Essan girl.

No more pounding rice–
No more buffalos for Fon.
I'll throw rose petals at her feet–
Her every woe gone.

Her first husband was nice.
An honorable gent.
But my name is Dana–
I'm the main event.

It's Destiny crying
For respect and review.
Fon and I loving,
First husband adieu.

One word from this Thai angel and I would pound nails into my knees. Would her husband (Commander Buffalo Poop) do this for her? I think everyone reading this knows the answer.

Fate never stumbles
Or drops to one knee.
The future expects
Fon and me.

So stay tuned–
All I need is a smile,
And I'll be writing more stories
For a long long while.

So help me, and help Fon, and help Destiny, and help Fate. Write to her husband (aka Mr. Kuhn Maak Stupidhead) and tell him what he must do. And don't use any big words. I've seen pictures of this guy and believe me; well, don't
use any big words is all. Anyway:

He'll be at the wedding.
He'll be the best man.
That's all I can do.
That's the end of his plan.

I can hear Fon calling–
A sweet mountain flower.
My future a slave–
To her Thai love power.

Don't envy my fate–
It's all God's plan.
Happy woman–
Happy happy man.
_______________

And now? Submission #250 titled:

FA'S ON THE LOOSE

Dark night,
Slashing rain–
I'm headed for Krung Thep . . .
My gut a cold pain.

Two road graders side by side in front of me with cut down aircraft engines and chained beach buggy tires. My Jaguar XJ12 body on a Hummer chassis behind with custom axles and double deep groove rain radials. Four sticky slicks on the back
tied down with water buffalo sisal rope. Ninety-four miles per hour. Ninety-four miles per hour in dark slashing rain headed down Highway 1. From Phann to Mae Chai, Ngao to Lampang, and then on to Sop Prap we are kicking out the jams. The intravenous
bottle of double hydrogen peroxide and calcium is chattering on the ceiling hook behind my head, my toes are about to catch fire from the delicious intravenous pain, Insane Clown Posse is amping my drums, and the road graders are leaving busted
and burning hulks on both sides of the road. Out of the way Somchai. We are Fa bound.

Fa is on the loose–
The word is out.
She's left the South Pattaya boardwalk–
Doing a sing and shout.

Singin' for freedom–
Shoutin' for fun.
Thinks I won't find her.
On the run.

After Tak, it's the 104 connector with black-and-white lightning x-ray skies, and gusts of 50-70 miles per hour from behind lifting the wheels. The road graders are dropping heated sand, and I kill the tunes. Then bursting out of a line
squall like quail from a burning barn we hit highway 1 again from Wang Chao to Nakhan Sawan. The temperature drops and there is hail but the sky is clearing and we crank up to one hundred and twenty miles per hour from Nakhon Sawan to the Highway
340 handoff. Dropping now. Dropping down to Bangkok and running a race. Will I get to the Rainbow bar before that girl of mine gets called out? Highway 340 finally gets too congested outside Pak K so the giant road graders pull over and so do
I.

Four minutes later the radials are gone and I'm ridin' sticky slicks and dropping my own heated sand on the way into west Bangkok. It's a navigation nightmare now so at a prearranged place I throw open the passenger door and
Tammy the tranny gets in with GPS, headlamp, maps, and a bag of fried calamari candy. Before her Obsessions Bar career she was a London taxi driver. This tranny can navigate.

South on nine–
East on three eighty-eight . . .
Fa's dancin' at the Rainbow–
Don't want to be late.

Crossing the Chao Phraya river I ditch the intravenous bottle and tubes and slap an amphetamine patch over the punctured vein. Next the glove box. Down comes the lid and in goes my hand. Final check. A love letter and a gun.

I leave the car in the Rajah car park, Tammy bails for the Obsessions bar, and I pull Fa off the stage at the Rainbow bar on the ground floor of the N.E.P. across from the Mothership. I show her the love letter. I show her the gun.

Down to Pattaya
My Fa and I . . .
She laughing . . .
Me crying "Why? Why?"

My Fa's going back to the boardwalk,
And if she tries to run–
I'll show her the love letter,
And I'll show her the gun.