BLISS WILL BE PROVIDED

After seeing the emergency crew cart off an overdosed Caucasian in Chinatown -- first time in that neighborhood to my knowledge -- on the further way down to my bank I saw a poster for something featuring a chopstick-wielding Caucasian looking blissed out. The overdoser was one of the usual streetpeople, and I think he'll live. That blissed out dude? Maybe not. Exquisite ecstatic agony. Probably food-related snuff pornography.
This city has a high degree of strange.

Much of it, oddly, connected to Caucasians.

Earlier I had seen an exceptionally large, LARGE, white man wearing tight short sexpot pants ambling down the street. Which is understandable, as it's shirtsleeve weather.
But not suitable garb for a gentleman. In any weather.


Which is one of the reasons I'm damned glad white people don't often eat at the place where I had lunch. Where there were only four people who weren't speaking Toishan dialect. Three of whom had no hope of ever doing so. At least I can understand it, situationally.
Don't ask me to ever speak it, though.


Sometimes I think that white people don't like Chinese food.
If I ever see sexpot shorts guy there, I'm invisible.
Sorry, I just arrived from Mars.
He isn't mine.

No, it's not a place with Hong Kong style milk tea. Instead it specializes quite a bit in claypot rice preparations, and sometime I shall have to order the yellow eels claypot rice, which I'm sure is delicious, but when I walked in I had a yen for salt fish pork patty claypot rice (鹹魚肉餅煲仔飯 'haam yü yiuk beng pou chai faan').

Listening in on all the talk in Toisaanwaa was icing on the cake.
The way the sounds are different is fascinating.
Is it an older pronunciation?
Or a later shift?



Hot pants are 熱褲 ('yit fu').
No word for Daisy Dukes.



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