I've seen the Seinfeld Show. They're certifiable there.
Tuesday nights are the traditional visits to low places, including a karaoke joint. We've been doing it since our days at the bookstore. But the bookseller called in sick (not Covid). And, truth be told, I do not wish to go out in this. My tea time smoke down in Chinatown was miserable. Tomorrow, when I go out, I'll have gloves and an extra tee-shirt underneath everything for extra insulation.
The karaoke joint has been on the programme since before they had a karaoke machine. The singing, when it's in English, is almost one hundred percent horrible. Some of the Chinese who go there are actually pretty good. But there are no songbirds there.
And other than propaganda ballads in Mandarin, there isn't much musical excitement. Andy Lau, whose videos often crop up on screen, can hardly be said to be a stellar musicalist. Though his performances are always interesting, and evidently extremely popular.
He's nothing at all like the Ozzy Osbourne.
Too ... staid.
I'll miss our usual snide commentary on the audacity of some of the people who decide to sing. While I applaud their courage, balls even, it takes a big ego to do Hotel California or any of the John Denver songs. An almost New Yorkese insanity.
The Hua Mei is a feisty little fellow, who fights other males of his kind, but tweets and chirps gaily for females. A perky little poser.
Next week I'll have a pipe while waiting for the bookseller to get off work.
I'm sure the rats will be about, the weather should be fine.
We'll no longer have to deal with Canadians.
Or their horrid weather.
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