My friend was going to listen to an hour and a half of rhythm and blues to get it all out of his head. We had heard too much mediocre Mandarin singing, and he wanted to wipe his mind clean.
Fårflokken i Indre Mongolia og Vest-Tibet!
It seemed like every other karaoke tune was about herding stuff, on the vast grasslands of Inner Mongolia and Western Tibet (內蒙古和西藏). A girl with long sleeves singing about the beauty of an endless horizon and her love for the chairman, her homeland/hometown, or a dashing young man.
As sung along either by the tittie groper or the skeevy dude who assured me that both of us Italians were very handsome and dignified.
I'm getting a little too old for this crap.
I have become an adult.
We did find out, however, that even though it never snows in Lingnan, it IS possible to sing soulfully about blizzards in Cantonese; an intellectual concept that colonizers took to the subtropics two millennia ago.
Anything is better than The Eagles or John Denver.
I really hate The Eagles, man.
Other than us two Italianate pretty boys (meaning: trim middle-aged white men), there were no other Caucasians there.
Jolly good thing, that.
Baa.
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