RIOTOUS EXCESS

This blogger is a saint. My tolerance of young Caucasians singing and acting up in a karaoke joint is superhuman, especially when you take into account that I drank not a single drop of alcohol to dull the pain.
My kompaan the bookseller also suffered.
But he had a drinkie.

Mind you, these were somewhat likable Caucasians, not rude or crude, but overly cheery, and loud enough to wake the dead. And Cyndi Lauper is deservedly a has-been now.

To the left all the way to the end of the bar, several Cantonese gentlemen were playing liars dice and being forbearing.

They do not go there for the music.



What did I drink? Before I left the house, a cup of tea. At the burger dive, mixed cola and orange soda. At the first bar, a glass of tea.
At the karaoke joint, hot water.



In years past, one screen would always show the Buddhist abbot lecturing on the sutras in Mandarin. Now Jenny turns that off within five minutes of him starting. I would have vastly preferred his remonstrantic talk-talk over Cyndi Lauper yelling about girls being kinda braindead, but that's just me.

There was a little bit of Canto-pop, and some Mandarin songs from the seventies. But not nearly enough. Conversation was almost entirely impossible. Manfully, the bookseller tried.


All I know is that at that time today, he will be between Tracy and Chico.
Who sound like a lovely couple.




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