Danger Close Christmas

Most people like to think of their family as dysfunctional.

Not me.

I like to think of my family as an eclectic bunch.

There are Nice Wilsons, Cranky Wilsons, Socialist Wilsons, Unsocial Wilsons, Smart Wilsons and developmentally challenged Wilsons.

Aside from our short stature and last name, there is no common denominator among us.

We have no ring to rule us all.( Insert Hobbit Joke Here)

Except of course, our obsessive compulsive and unhealthy relationship with Fire and things that explode.

Examples Given:

My Great Grandfather used to take great joy in extinguishing his cigars on his Great Danes testicles.

My Grandmother built a propane powered potato cannon to enforce the 5mph NO WAKE ZONE in front of her house.

My Father burned down a 300 acre wheat field with a single bottle rocket. It is also rumored that he burned down the Denverton Duck Club.

And I……

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Mama's Restaurant

Phuket, Thailand

12-19-2011 7:30 PM

In Thailand,Pineapple Fried Rice is not Fried Rice intersped with the occasional chunk of pineapple.

No.

Pineapple Fried Rice in Thailand is a Whole Pineapple. It's hull is hollowed out and the Pineapple Chunks are intersped with the occasional Fried Rice.

Genius.

On this infamous day, I cleaned out the Fore and Aft sections of a Pineapple, paid the bill in full and walked over to my Motorbike.( Motorbike: Heterospeak for Moped)

I started the engine, threw one leg over the saddle and throttled forward.

It is said that the 200th hour for new pilots is the most dangerous hour. This is because the young pilot is just starting to get confident in his skills. Confident enough to get himself killed.

Little did I know, that I was approaching my 200th moped hour.

I dashed of into the night, maneuvering the moped with reckless abandon.

As I passed the local fire station, someone pulled out in front of me. I had to swerve to avoid colliding with him.

I laid the moped down at thirty miles an hour and slid for about twenty feet.

In a mild state of shock, I popped up and dusted myself off like I just stole third.

By the time I assessed my situation a crowd had surrounded me. I sprained my wrist, resprained my ankle and my knee was bleeding profusely.

With genuine concern I heard Thai, Australian, English and Russian voices all essentially asking "Are you okay?"

One voice in particular kept saying,

"Cuse me sah, sah. Go Hospital. Go Hospital now. "

Because of the surrounding crowd I started to feel like Ricard Gere's gerbil, very claustrophobic. To assert myself, I raised my voice to just below a yell and let everyone know that I was fine.

Fortunately, someone who knew me broke through the crowd and ushered me over to the Fire Department.

The "Firemen", (16 year old boys in cut off- jean shorts and wife-beaters.)

cleaned my wounds, applied antiseptic and bandaged me up. Free of charge.

For the next week or so, I hobbled around the town looking like Gollum.

My bungalow looked like a MASH Unit.

Antibiotics, Antiseptics, Gauze, ACE Bandages, Ice Buckets….the works.

Eventually Christmas Day came and I had indulged, once again in some of Mama's Pineapple Fried Rice.

This time going on foot instead of Death Scooter

One my way back, I passed the fire station. The Firemen asked if my wounds had healed. I showed them the progress.

As I turned to leave, I noticed that the firemen had set up a small card table and were selling something.

Fireworks.

I will pause to let it sink in.

A Fire Department selling fireworks.

The most ingenious lesson in job creation since Oregon outlawed pumping your own gas.

Since I didn't pay for the emergency services, I wasn't going to let the little Obama in my head win. (I will take the time to explain my "Fireworks for Health Care Plan of 2022" in another post.)

I asked to buy their most expensive firework. The firemen pointed to a relatively small box about six inches tall, and four inches wide on both sides. I noticed that there were many other larger and more elaborate looking Fireworks, but this small box with a fuse, cost more than the rest.

Slightly confused, I paid my 250 baht(9USD) and didn't think much of it. Ladies and Gentleman, this is called being presumptive.

At Midnight on Christmas Eve, when nothing was stirring, I felt safe to go outside the Hotel and light off the firework in the street.

In the lobby, I passed a girl on her laptop and said "Damn, I have been waiting all day to do this."

She looked at me like I was a sex offender who asked what time elementary school is out. I felt the shame of a pyro pervert.

I placed the firework in the middle of an empty street/ parking lot and lit the fuse, with total wanton disregard for the thatched roofs and dry brush surrounding me.

"It's just a little sparkler" I thought.

BOOM! The firework, turned mortar round, let off a fiery report a hundred meters skyward. It turned the night from pitch black to completely illuminated.

Cazart! This thing is more powerful than I thought.

I realized I failed to place any supports to keep it upright. Without any structural integrity the Mortar pointed across the street directly at about thirty chicken coops.

BOOM!. The second mortar shot out and exploded inside one of the Chicken Coops. This sent the chickens into a frenzy. A true FusterCluck.

The Third Mortar took a 90 degree left and exploded under some cars. Sensing impending doom, I sprinted directly back to my bungalow.

The 4th, 5th and 6th Mortars went off while I was at a full sprint in the opposite direction. There trajectories remain unknown.

For the next six hours, I kept having visions of an angry Thai Witchhunt with dead chickens and pitchforks. I stayed in my room with the lights off until my taxi showed up to take me to the airport the next morning.

Moral of the story ladies: Big things come in small packages.

Becoming a High Speed Death Machine..

Welcome to Thailand….The Mexico of the South Pacific

For reasons that were never made clear, I decided to go from Australia to Thailand.

I arrived in Phuket feeling more American than Chuck Norris riding a Mastodon down the Champs Elyeses. Supreme confidence.

That is until Thai Passport Control.

With two people in line ahead of me, I realized

"Oh shit. There might be a warrant out for my arrest here."

Two years ago. I left the country after evading arrest, via Moped.

It was one of the World's Most Exciting Low-Speed Chases.

Fortunately, I handed my passport over and got two stamps.

This ensured 90 days of playing Grand Theft Auto Thailand. No gaming console needed.

The first step in Becoming a High Speed Death Machine is to study at a Muay Thai camp. (I think Muay Thai is Spanish for "Very Thai" or something...)

Unlike Passport Control, I was recognized immediately by the instructors at the camp. I am etched permanently into their collective unconscious as the guy who got his ass kicked by a Canadian Girl.

This is a noteworthy accomplishment considering, these camps are filled with the kind of intellect who thinks that the International Date Line is a Foreign Phone Sex Number.

Before my first training session, I stopped at the Tiger Grill to eat. The Tiger Grill is Thailands answer to the Paul Wilson-Katie Wiseman Snack Shack where we specialize in Bad Attitudes, Cold Hot Dogs and Warm Sodas. The Tiger Grill capitalized on an same economic principle Katie and I did.

Scarcity.

No food for miles.

At the start of my first training, session I noticed two stunning girls in the class. This was a warm surprise , because I left Australia thinking I would have to relegate myself to celibacy. (Note to Comobini: Lady Boys are not an option.)

I approached them and found out that they were filming a SwissTravel Show. Perfect. I'm Swiss, I have first right of refusal.

The conversation was flowing along nicely, until my back started getting whacked by a stick.

In a high-pitched Charlie Brown's Teacher voice I deciphered "Today, we have stick."

Meaning: Any perceived deviance in discipline illicits an 8 foot bamboo cane to be swung Barry Bonds style straight to your torso.

Moral of the story. Don't try to meet chicks at High Speed Death Machine Camps. It never works out.

Postscipt

Turns out, the girl mentioned above was last Miss Switzerland. Read linked article.

A Dingo ate my street sign...

Greetings from the most poisonous place on earth. Allow me to distill some venomous wisdom in essay format.

I arrived in Melbourne, two days before the fabled Melbourne Cup.

Well... I should say that I arrived in St. Kilda, a suburb of Melbourne. It took me about four days of investigating to figure out that there are no Australians in St. Kilda. Just German and French people.

Which is just as well.

My perception of Australian Men includes visions of guy wearing too much neon, whose idea of "Finding Himself" involves a shower and some lotion.

The inspiration for my trip DownUnder was to get in touch with my inner criminal. Considering the last three Criminal/Walnut Grovians to make the pilgrimage Down Under have met wild commercial success upon their return home, I have nothing to lose.

My first of, I assure you many more to come, thefts came after a night of heavy drinking. I went out with a brother and sister from England and a couple Swedish girls. The Brother solidified himself in my corner when he quoted WWII Churchill while pouring me some bubbly. He announced to the bar:

"It's not France we are fighting for, it's Champagne."

We drank and shared some Churchill inspired enthusiasm, while the girls looked at us disdainfully.

By closing time I found it difficult to navigate multi-syllabic words, let alone my way home. If Google mapped my route home, it would bear an uncanny resemblance to Michael J. Fox's Etch-e-sketch

As I approached the hostel, I passed through a construction zone riddled with signage. I inspected the rear of an ill-fated sign, loosened the bolt and peeled off. Class, this is called unconscious competence.

I entered the hostel and proudly displayed my plunder to everyone outside and in.

After my victory lap, I sat down next to some Irish guys in the common room and farted. This angered them.

To calm them down I said, "Hey it's cool man. I'm Irish."

IrishGuy " Your Irish? What's your name?"

PVW "Will Fartagain."

I know. Brilliant right. Why can't I do this sober?