Friday nights and the lights are not so much low, more completely off. If I was abba, I could have bought a clapper (just to be delightfully tacky). Went over to the HQ of one of the places I dabble in work (I say dabble, as an actual work ethic only possesses me when it applies to useful things like learning the accordion). This particular profession involves magic and my hula-hoop dancing, something which is just a shade more handy than a handful of lightly salted, frozen, and hostile scrambled eggs.
Serpiente was there, being ridiculed by the owner for some inconsequential misdemeanor. He was at that moment wearing some garish garment and out doing some performance or other, probably DJ-ing. So, awaiting his return to HQ, I found his street clothes in the office and changed into them. When he rang the bell to re-enter he was greeted by a grinning female manifestation of an alter-ego, eating a lollipop and demanding inappropriate things. Golly gee willickers bat-man, I even surprise myself sometimes.
After we changed into out respective clothes, respective and respectable, we scurried to his abode. We cheerily procrastinated burning time and energy. I'm happy to say that his dwelling place NEVER smells revolting. I've been in lairs of such a vile stench I've wondered at how the smell doesn't disgust itself and leave for greener pastures (to stink in). I've known better things to move away for another man. Serpiente'd gotten some shirts made for winter, that is out of winter-appropriate material, and donned them for another job of his.
He is occasionally working as a bar-tender at Maya. Maya is one of these bars consisting of sliding doors, black mirrors, trendily bad electronic music, staff in black, murmuring mascara-masked people, sleek taps, low lights, floating screens and elaborate drink menus... the kind of scene I prefer so much more than that of Carniges.
Carniges is this pocky little foul den of filth that smells of mid-life crises, beer stupors and the ever-present wanchai stench of pretentious tweenagers bearing there somewhat lopsided premature bosoms to the sweating underbelly populous of 852. They have things like 10 $ Vodka night, and girls with love-handles swinging their cellulite two-and-fro on the brass poles on the bar. The great pendulums of fat jostle for attention and clamor for air between the sweaty over-grown clumps of grime and salty perverts who freckle the unidentifiable sports junk on the wall. Glinda once got into a fight there (for which I love her dearly).
Give me to translate chinese Tolstoy before pushing me into that cesspool.
Other than that there are no real notes of consequence from friday, other than that the day before Glinda & I had performed in City Hall (an interestingly robust concert hall in hong kong, usually inhabited by orchestras and well-dressed people). Bless that soprano. Her solo was fantastic, I gave a large ungainly hug to her after the show. Serpeinte did not come. I am not at all impressed by that. Kaz was there to bestow flowers on us after the show, and the orchestra we performed with were superb.
On saturday I performed the usual nothings in an establishment of high price and little vice in Hong Kong's fat-cat side. Marble floors, tiny food, useless but impeccable staff. This particular show involved singing and wearing silver heels, something I usually only do when offered a fat wad of cash/starbucks.
After that I supped with stickyfinger-sister, and spent the night with her and then with Serpiente delighting in the antics of people with far more disposition to work at being funny.
All in all, my ducks... Bloody Mary never caused anything like Jesus to be, and the Holy Mother probably didn't come wielding a bottle of tabasco.
Turrah.
Jhonnie Cat.
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