Star_ucks Desperation

Desperation stakes. Bus rides into Lil’ Ind. had not appealed. The uncles and aunties were perfectly alright of course; much preferable to the smartly polished on the trains of course. But as one slowly/not so slowly approached years of sere, you felt a little.... out of sorts among that company all the time. So then, given the late hour following some extended labour on the pages, after a local lunch at the Haig, a café it would be. This was the second in the last ten plus days; since the return from the Great Southern Land, the third or fourth. There had not been a single cafe in three months on the Peninsular; a few only in Jogja and Jakarta. Therefore, with no more than three/four since OZ, perhaps two or three dozen altogether. The Starbs outlet here on Tanjong corner was renovated last year, enlarged after it overtook Superheroes next door. There had indeed been a noticeable downturn in the heroes on the street in recent times. It may have been almost a week the chesty Superman had not appeared. Bat was holding up better, film treatment and related helping retain some grip perhaps. Meanwhile, Starbs had justified its investment; weekends and evenings in particular were chockers there. Cheap WiFi—and pretty rapido at that. Aircon never to be underestimated. Escaping the pigeon-holes of course. Eric at Wadi the other night had mentioned the enthusiasm for Starbs among all the young guys at his ad. agency. Starbs and only Starbs for that crew; they held all their meetings there, lunched, lounged and dated under the F&B golden arches equivalent. Window lounge chairs today were all taken except close by the White guy up on the stool fixed on his top. Impossible to park one’s bottom in that vicinity. Two guys of an age, stubbled, oozing plenty cool between them, sitting adjacent would not be right. The locals would be totally dispirited for one thing, and inevitably the brand diluted too. No siree! Worse still, another chap of the favoured races sat only ten metres distant hard against the window beneath a cheap, fake panama. Imagine that triangle had one stumbled blindly, switched off and without wits blundered over. Over to the other side with you Buster, well outta harm’s way. Beside the escalators there. Good back-rest against the wall. Oh Hi! immediately…. The Malay girl from the cosmetic shop on the other corridor swanning past. (Scarf and baju, but no frisson there Mademoiselle, sorry. It was a lustrous handsome day today, one of those things. Some care required.) The confession must not be restrained: today the lounge and blues re-masters actually hit the spot more or less at Starbs Tanjong corner. Satchmo, Billie and one or two other throaty songsters. Love is like a Prophet. (If that was right.) / As long as I have youuuu. / I love you madly. The dial was down a touch. There had been no music months now. It was possible even the notices of publications during the term on the Peninsular had not been celebrated by the usual Maria Call. or Jussi. Steely cold discipline could not hold up forever; had to give eventually. You make me feel so young / You make me feel Spring has sprung was not a favourite. What a strange period it had been, two or three years of Deano in his tuxe, Bob dropping his well-timed lines (and later learning he had in fact been such a complete dud & dunce otherwise). The ladies, the dames in the flouncy dresses. B&W tones back then—songs, chat, dances, joke routines. Here they had never quite overcome the attraction. There had been no rebellion in the 60s or 70s here. Great leap never happened. We had all come full circle now of course across the globe, back to the future. But Sing had kept the home fires burning the entire while. Throughout. They were hanging a man here in the morning, first light. There had been no news locally. Up on the Peninsular the family had received a letter from the prison on Monday suggesting they make arrangements. Friday was tomorrow. Hangings here always took place Fridays. Beef had said 100gm was enough for the noose in Sin’pore. He had showed the usual 300 pack about the size of two ciggie boxes, a bit larger. A third of that. In a comment on the Malaysiakini item that had delivered the news the writer had suggested that doubtless Sing Pharma would in short order be involved in the medicinal trade in the rapidly changing climate. Too late for the man tomorrow.