THAT SONG REMINDS ME OF ..... BACON!

Well, that was a perfectly rotten night, and a large part of it was due to the bacon, which was suspect. One just cannot trust two Muslim gentlemen, though they are splendid fellows and all, to be as committed to the edibility, juiciness, and freshness of a few precooked slices kept warm on top of the pizza oven as two Christians might have been while they wait for the next drunk to order bacon on his burger. Which would be me. I was still cold-sober, it was a hot dog (extra tomato, no lettuce or onion, sploodge of Sriracha and mustard), and it had been an extremely slow night.

The bacon was hard, dry, and mahogany coloured.
The bookseller did not have any.
A wise choice.


A further part of it was the dive we ended up in afterwards, where Michael and his various henches were drinking with out-of-town gangsters, locals and strangers in a neatly alternating row all the way down the length of the bar, somebody's moll near the centre, and Tommy's idiot friend too close to the visiting "older brother" for any sense of comfort.
The weedhead was packing, I knew, and that did not fill me with confidence either, but he was winning at liar's dice, so remained at least halfway sober, if not quite sane. The only ganj I smelled had been earlier when the reek of three people whacking minds had drifted into a different place.
Sourish, pungent, and like a dead animal.
A repellent stench.


Pot smokers are scum, just so you know.


The Chinese bar was painfully loud, everybody yelling in Cantonese except the owner, who took the time to drunkenly commiserate with us at length over something we've been told every week since November, and two people taking turns to sing Canto-pop at the karaoke machine.

The best number had a video showing a bride and groom, wearing traditional wedding garb, in Hong Kong, having a quarrel in a narrow street which I think was somewhere on the Island, possibly Kennedy Town. Somewhere south of Central.
Beautifully filmed.


The absolutely beyond a doubt worst number was any one of several airs which two blondes out of three who stumbled in to sing sang. My friend the bookseller and I were directly in the firing line at the song end of the bar, safely away from the out-of-town Older Brother.
Who at some point had been disconcerted by me. I glow in the dark, but sometimes I give every indication of understanding Toisanwa, which may indicate something. Possibly perversity, but it's probably best not to ask.
In any case he singled out Tommy's idiot friend as the toughest guy there, and truly admirable. Fullsome praise! Somewhat threatening.
Tommy's idiot friend looked incredibly pleased.
He is quite staggeringly stupid.
A spanner.


The English singing was excruciating.
The bacon was indigestible.
There was noise.


We left early and wandered up the hill. At Stockton Street we passed a young Caucasian gentleman shouting at his wheatish girlfriend to "shut the f*ck up nigger" heading in the opposite direction. They were still audible at Mason, when they must have been over three blocks distant. A group of happy childish voices could be heard from a nearby apartment building singing the ABC song. Along Pacific all signs indicate that Recology is losing its grip on the garbage situation where lower incomes live.
And somebody had set a trash can on fire.
Avoid bacon on slow nights.
It stays with you.



Everything reminds me of bacon.




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