KARAOKE: OFFENSE AGAINST NATURE, OR A LAPSE OF TASTE?

Last night's scheduled misadventure was marked by art, song, and haircuts. Not necessarily all in the same place. But nonetheless two of those three were thematically linked, as the dominant motif was 'crap'.

The same insane courage required to belt out your emotions at a karaoke joint and give your friends something to regret knowing you for is what is necessary to line your perfectly horrid paintings up along the walls of an alleyway in hopes that a drunken tourist will buy one, and by so doing subsidize your next can of Olde English 800.
But only karaoke is invasive.

The bookseller and I do not sing karaoke at all.
But we are keen connoisseurs of the form.


I cannot say that our weekly wine, beer, and whiskey evening leads to any great insights. But it does allow us to remember Monty Python bits and other Brit comedic sparkles, and keeps the mind young and spongy.

The more whiskey has been consumed, the greater the likelihood of the other patrons in the bar sounding Scottish. Most of them being Chinese who are far more fluent in something other than English.
Precisely like the Scots, in other words.





One can drink 'Scotch'. It's also a tape. But one can never be 'Scotch'.
Scot, Scottish, or a Scots-man. Woman. Person.

An artistic woman beyond reproductive age was snogging in the alley with a man who looked like a yeti. We are cheered by the fact that no offspring will ensue, her loins will not erupt with Rosemary's Babies.
You too should be glad.

Earlier, during a brief break for a smoke outside the bar she had asked me if I was a scientist. A vulcanologist perhaps? A student of life?

I am not any of that; I am an iguana.
And I do not write poetry.
Please don't talk.




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