It strikes me that karaoke brings out something in most people. Specifically, a dislike of their fellow human beings. Which was evident last night at the bar where a human being (bookseller) and I went to have a conversation.
Many people who sing karaoke are complete misanthropes.
Singing is their equivalent of slaughter.
They hate everyone.
At one end of the bar was a Brueghelian scene of local gentlemen playing dice and chatting in Cantonese. At the other end, yelling hipsters with huge egos, and two middle-aged gentlemen mostly keeping quiet because rational conversation was impossible during the "music".
An intoxicated young lady made it a point to apologize to me for her French. Which I gladly accepted, even though I had not heard her French.
I am sure it was exceptional.
It's all The Eagles, man, and dammit I've had a long day.
Actually the day was fine. Cigars, pipes, bitter melon and short ribs with fermented black bean sauce over rice (涼瓜排骨飯), and hot Hong Kong milk tea (香港奶茶). Lerng gwaa paai kwat faan, gong sik naai chaa.
Indistinct Cantonese-y mumbling: 十粉之十秀秀好好吓喇，都唔錯！
I had to clarify that when I said 'paai gwat', I meant 'pai kut'.
Something about my accent versus Toishanese ears.
Being unfortunately a solitary eater nowadays, I tend to listen in on other diners. The three elderly ladies at the next table over were enthusiastically discussing the two sons and one daughter of one of them. The daughter is not yet married (single, even resolutely so, in a Chinese context ALWAYS means "not yet married"), and when asked how old the girl in question was, she did not answer but veered into a different track. Which may mean that the child is a lesbian, or has bad body odour, or is living with a boyfriend (who might even be white!), or seeing a gentleman, or just too darn busy in her extremely successful career to want that distraction any time soon.
The sons are married, in case you were wondering.
We shan't discuss daughters-in-law.
Because they were having so much fun, the neglected their shared platter of pan-fried noodles with mixed oddments, and barely finished the soup.
Tea has a remarkable effect on old folks, perhaps they need more of it.
Other tables were not nearly so interesting. The European tourists with the remains of unimaginatively chosen dishes in front of them, beefy and big. Three Canto juveniles watching stuff on their cellphones while snacking after school; no conversation there. A single diner enjoying fried tofu with crispy stuff, the weary middle-aged businessman having cherng fan (腸粉), and the two ladies shouting in the corner.
Today, after visiting my bank, I shall have a bite to eat at a restaurant where grandma-auntie watches emotionally overloaded soap operas in Mandarin on a small teevee set during the afternoon. Nothing much happens, there is melodrama and despair, and the main characters flounce, wail, screech.
She can hardly understand me when I speak Cantonese.
But Toishanese and Mandarin, no problem.
Perhaps I need to weep.
Loudly.
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