Over Chulia Street lightning crackles across the tropical purple black night like electric river systems flowing through the sky. A heavy rain cleared away the oppressive humidity. I'm barely sweating, as I walk by the Hong Kong Bar. The old banci whores hiss at me to buy them a drink. My No Beer Week continues. I smile back and shout back, "Esok kita minum."
'Tomorrow we drink'. Malay is the easiest language in the world. No articles or a need for tenses.
I went to bed early at 11:00, listening to the BBC on my world band radio. Danny, the owner of the Swiss Hotel said that this afternoon Rob called to say the money will to be sent to the HK Bank on Beach Street and the ticket should be forthcoming. Short on rations the last two weeks I've trimmed another five lbs. for my girth and with my embargo on beer I might lose all of the fat cells around my waist, but I'm recovering from a long overseas binge.
Don Drysdale died at only 56.
Only another fifteen years until I'm that old. although I'll never be a Hall of Famer. Newsweek published an article about risks to men. To the average impact zone for a male at forty-one exercising moderately, a little overweight, smoking pot and drinking are not a death sentence. No mention of drugs. I can't change that my father has a history of heart problems. So quitting drink and losing weight might gain a chance to be a septuagenarian. Sobriety might save my life like the antagonist of Hardy's Mayor of Castle Bridge, who had not taken a drink for twenty years.
It's been six days of sober. I reckon I can make it the week. The great God Beer calls me by name. Singing me a siren song beer beer beer beer beer beer beer beer. I'll be drinking a few at the Hong Kong bar on Chula Street. I heard music in the air like I am blessed by Bacchus.
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