Red eyes greet the day, Stumbling brain still partly sleeps. Another late night!
2 comments:
Anonymous
said...
late, yes, but beautiful, too, no?
what's a Friday of Red Eyes compared to the joy of Gypsy Jazz Jianghu Thursdays?
By the way, you have competition for the Accordionista. Both my gentlemen friends who met her/heard her/saw her for the first time last night are all gaga and ready to join the gypsy Karavan. I told them they'd have to wait in line as it seems every gentleman in Beijing is lined up for that Karavan.
I've also decided when the time comes, I'm joining on, too. I'm no accordionist, but I'm sure I could make myself useful on a roam through the steppes... I could be the wagon wheel repair gal...
Every bar is a memory.
And all the memories huddle together for company, so that in my mind it often seems as though every bar I've ever been in is on the same street, or at least in the same neighbourhood; every great drinking session I fondly recall happened on one night, or over the course of one weekend; and everyone I've ever drunk with fuses into a single person, the idealised Drinking Companion.
Sometimes it seems to me also that the melancholy that infuses so many of these memories had but a single cause, an idealised Lost Love.
Some of these memories I will now try to share with the enormous, faceless, blog-munching world at large.
These, then, are the mental voyages of the boozehound Froog; his many-year mission to seek out new drinks and new places to drink them in, to write The Meaning Of Life on a napkin.... andnotlose it on the way home.
Froog is an escaped lawyer - but there is no need for alarm; he is only a danger to himself, not to the general public. An eternal wanderer, he now lives in an exotic city somewhere in the 'Third World' *, where he is held prisoner by an unfinished novel (or, more precisely, an unstarted novel). He spends a lot of time running, writing, taking photographs, and falling in love with women who fail to appreciate him. He also spends a lot of time in bars.
[* OK, I'll come clean: I've been living in Beijing since summer '02.]
2 comments:
late, yes, but beautiful, too, no?
what's a Friday of Red Eyes compared to the joy of Gypsy Jazz Jianghu Thursdays?
By the way, you have competition for the Accordionista. Both my gentlemen friends who met her/heard her/saw her for the first time last night are all gaga and ready to join the gypsy Karavan. I told them they'd have to wait in line as it seems every gentleman in Beijing is lined up for that Karavan.
I've also decided when the time comes, I'm joining on, too. I'm no accordionist, but I'm sure I could make myself useful on a roam through the steppes... I could be the wagon wheel repair gal...
Z is lovely, but she's dating N.
(Starting to get a bit Kafkaesque here in the comments, but I feel I should provide third parties a token cloak of 'anonymity'.)
It's the other accordionista who makes me go weak at the knees - but probably only because she bears a disconcerting resemblance to The Poet.
Post a Comment