THE UNDEAD SOUND

Oh lord, save us from Caucasian people singing karaoke, in thy mercy, we beseech thee. George Harrison and John Lennon are rolling over in their graves right now. So is Elvis.
And many others not dead yet. Graves will be provided.

As a refined man of delicate sensibilities I feel that there is nothing worse than white folks doing karaoke. And I wonder when did that become a thing?
Do they stop doing it once they hit adulthood?
If not, why not?

Perhaps they weren't raised right.


Before we got to the karaoke bar my friend and I discussed the looming Sriracha crisis. Which is profound, earthshaking in fact. Life in California is difficult to imagine without Sriracha, it's going to be sheer hell elsewhere. Teeth will be gnashed.

Fortunately the burger joint still has a bottle or two. As does the place where I had eaten lunch (榨菜肉絲蝦球鴛鴦米 'jaa choi yiuk si haa kau yuen yeung mai') earlier in the day. Yesterday's lunch (苦瓜魚片濕炒米 'fu gwaa yü pin sap chaau mai') was at a place which doesn't normally have Sriracha anyway, so I made do with the standard table sambal. Tomorrow's place should have several bottles.

[Lunch: rice noodles (米粉) both times. If I had made it at home I would have added chopped bacon.]

I'll be fine. Worst comes to worst, I'll sandbag the front steps and shoot whatever moves.
Especially if it has an Iowa, Illinois, or Kansas accent.
Get back, you ghastly refugees!

This week the most dangerous man in North Beach wasn't at the karaoke bar, quite probably he was too stoned to get there. Tat Yee was, but his kwailo friend with anger issues wasn't. The stupidest waiter in Chinatown, sitting at the end, fortunately kept quiet and may have left before we did. Jenny looked dreamy (half asleep) while reading her e-mails on her cellphone. Her husband stepped out occasionally to get away from the howling Caucasians and smoke a cigarette. Other than the unmelodics there was peacefulness.

So it was a good evening. No unusual insanity.
Didn't see a single rat all evening.



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