DINNER AND A SHOW

A late lunch of mustard pork rice-noodles, and a cup of Hong Kong milk tea. After purchasing oil vegetable, barbarian eggplant, sand river powder, shrimp roe face, and lively ginger. Which are all correct but wrong translations of the Chinese names. Stalky mustard greens, tomatoes, rice stick noodles, dried wheat noodles with shrimp roe added to the dough, and fresh ginger.


榨菜肉絲米粉

Soup, with fresh vegetable, porky bits, and pickled mustard cabbage. It was delicious. Even with my nose running a marathon. New deal in music videos of Hong Kong concerts: script on screen telling you in two languages who the performer is, what song they're doing, and which designer wardrobe they are wearing. So of course it's perfect for both the avid fans and the fashion conscious consumerist slaggolumps in the audience. I am neither. Most of the time I don't know who these stars are, and do not care.

A man dressed in a costume twixt tortoise and hand grenade. And a woman in a candelabra outfit with little ruffled lampshades. Pink and peach.

The audience waves neon glowsticks.

And self-referential signs.

Hong Kong musical variety videos are getting weirder by the month. It's the holes in the stage, moving parts, lighting, and floating screens that allow that. That big entertainment venue at the tip of Kowloon has expanded horizons. The possibilities are endless. State of the art.

I think I'll go to bed immediately after finishing my coffee. It's too grim outside for a final smoke of the night, and it threatens rain. I'm tired.


Two good conversations. The first with a woman from out in the avenues dining at the lunch place, which went from recognition that I spoke Cantonese to food and movies, the second with a little old lady with bad eye-sight, who could not see that I was not Chinese and consequently speculated about the possibility of the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth Muni bus on the Number One California line not picking up any passengers in C'town. Either that or the light was bad and surely every stick-like angular white guy or possibly Pakistani understands Cantonese.
She took it for granted.

In the semi-dark maybe I look like someone she knew.




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