Wednesday, December 21, 2022


Suppose the aliens landed and visited a karaoke bar. Would we ever hear from them again? Or would they send a final snarky put-down as their last communication while high-tailing it the heck away from this planet? This is something that came to mind after the last two songs last night. My friend and I still heard the lowing of cows across the blasted wasteland for at least half a block after we left. We are masochistic.

Fortunately the stupidest waiter in Chinatown wasn't as lit as he had been last week, when he was positivily twirling. Possibly because none of the girlies sat next to him.

None of the girlies sat near us either, but for us that's a good thing. The elderly drunken girlie who likes my friend has not been around in ages, the weepy Mandarin-speaking girl stopped coming maybe four years ago, and the blonde slags, who are an ever-changing selection, were not in evidence. Were there even any girlies? I can't remember.
That isn't why we go there.

We are two men with gravitas having a nightcap on our weekends.
Well, it should be my weekend, but I work today.
Normally I'm off on Wednesday.
Both yesterday and Monday, in bah-humbug revolt against the season and the traditional social fustercludging with very white foods, I ate what can only be described as Canto home-style. Unassuming, not much ordered by outsiders. 支竹牛腩 ('ji juk ngau naam') and 鹹魚炒茄子 ('haam yü chaau ke ji'); beef stew with tofu skin, salt fish stirfry eggplant.
Both dishes are immensely comforting in cold weather.

I find myself more than ever disliking my fellow human beings around this time of year. I hope the space aliens don't give up on us, but in all fairness I could see why they would.
We sing badly, dress funny, and eat too much.

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