Quote: "Stop that, stop that! You're not going to do a song while I'm here! Now listen, lad, in twenty minutes you are getting married to a girl whose father owns the biggest tracts of open land in Britain." End quote.
From which we learn that there is more to life than just singing.
[The phrase is from Monty Python, Holy Grail.]
Unfortunately Johnny's Idiot Younger Brother hasn't grasped that yet. And, unfortunately, he also fails to grasp his utter and complete devastating lack of talent, or any likable characteristic whatsoever. He is the perfect Herbert.
"I want the girl that I marry to have... a certain... special... thing."
Shut up, Herbert!
The two worst karaoke songs in the world are 'Sweet Caroline' and 'Welcome to the Hotel California'. Followed closely by anything Abba. And, given that neither I nor the bookseller sing, and because of medications I do not drink alcohol, you could well ask why we even go there.
Tradition, mainly. We've been heading there once a week for years, and now that Jenny is behind the counter, the ambiance is saner than it ever was. Though she does tolerate more from the stupid kwailos than she should.
Last night I drank soda. Tea. Hot water. That last while at one end of the bar the Cantonese were slamming dice cups and the Marketing Department Caucasians were drinking themselves "melodically" into stupours.
Johnny's Idiot Younger Brother (Paul) is older than he was a few years ago, even more dishwater than before, and, unfortunately, encourages the drunken Caucasians. As does the titty groper. The rest of us largely try to avoid any interaction with them.
Earlier we had observed a bunny rabbit placidly eating either crisp lettuce or somebody's stash. In connection with an ambulance dropping off a person who had recovered from an overdose.
There was also a fat shaggy dog with a big bottom.
And several people with hair dyed pink.
The bunny was the sanest.
Chew, chew, chew.
North Beach isn't the same anymore. These dingoes now want to sing.
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