THE SOUND OF INFERNAL REGIONS

Often on Tuesday nights I am somewhat unappreciative of the fine art of karaoke, as you may have noticed when I speak about the customary pub crawl with my friend and former colleague the book seller. Which is undeserved; some people put their black heart and soul into their musical stylings, raising unendurable screeching to a high art, an ignoble form of regretably intimate self-expression. They are mostly caucasian marketing department types, and hail from the boondocks originally, just high on affordable firewater and all the tall buildings in the city, and happy to be here. Bless them.

Not tonight. We gave the karaoke bar a miss. Too crowded.
And there was a marijuana reek outside of it.

We went to a different bar for the last cup of tea of the evening. Tea, which I drink at bars nowadays because I don't relish the possibility of my medications interacting with alcohol and killing my liver, makes me want to pee several hours later, so I shall sleep fitfully.
I've noticed that many women at night seldom drink tea.
Maybe most of them are unmedicated?
Or total alcoholics?

It's a possibility, you know. Tiny bladders. Can't process much.

Usually I wait for him near my bank, because it's well-lit there and one can hear a foretaste of the evening's entertainment. Remarkably, there were hardly any sounds. Some European tourists passed by while I was smoking my pipe, and a few neighborhood people who recognized me and gave greeting. Quiet. Peaceful.

Several hours earlier I had been at a nearby chachanteng around afternoon teatime for salt fish and chicken fried rice (鹹魚雞粒炒飯 'haam yü gai naap chaau faan') and cups of tea. Very enjoyable. Almost empty at that hour. A neighborhood kind of place where you hardly see any outsiders. I started going there when I still lived three blocks away, years ago. Over the last dozen years I've been going there much more often. Three of the other local chachantengs that I used to frequent have disappeared in that time -- their leases ran out and the rent got raised through the roof, or the owners decided to retire -- and the number of places where one can get a decent cup of Hong Kong milk tea has diminished considerably as sugary froo froo boba garbage took over. So it's good that there are still a number of businesses that don't cater to the pudgy teenage crowd and white office ladies.

I'm rather judgemental about that.

I don't mind Hello Kitty. Lord knows I rather like her, in an ironic and tongue in cheek kind of way. Used to have a Hello Kitty backpack in which to carry my pipes and tobacco when heading to work. But I do not like her taste in snacks or beverages.
I rather wish she were a karaoke drunk.
Better drinks by far.


Most people should not sing. That isn't their talent.

Actually, none of them. Really.




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