Monday, January 22, 2018


There are some folks who are born to sing. And then there are some folks where you go "oh lordy let me take that EVIL microphone away from you". And, honestly, I don't hang around in karaoke bars for the singing. No one in their right mind does. I hang around one particular karaoke bar because it's almost spitting distance from my apartment, and no one objects if I spend a while in the downstairs portico with my pipe and tobacco.

Which, last night, was a no name Canadian of stupendously ancient briar, and Greg Pease's 'Laurel Heights. It's a tobacco blend that makes basic red Virginia sing, better than the chantoosies upstairs.

Who almost uniformly chose off songs.

"Hey O.G., has it been like this all evening?"

"Yeah. Nothing but drunks, weirdoes, and squawling."

I have no idea why he calls me O.G. In Tongan, Oji means finished, over, done with. Which does not apply to me. But to the songs, probably appropriate, or wishful. Lordy, let it be over!

[It's probably short for 'Old Guy'.]

All I could think of for most of the fifty minutes I spent there was that it was nine hours later in Holland, fifteen hours later in Hong Kong. Which meant that some people were just getting up, others were almost ready for afternoon tea.

The entire history of deservedly forgotten music.
For a minimum expense.

One Scotch.

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