Yesterday, I sat having my first coffee out of doors in I think... what....let's count .... (bad at numbers, hold on)....about 15 years. No make that 16. My poor fizzing, jingling, permanently wind-chimed ears had to endure a lot of hen-squawking and crowing to cacophonous music (music did I call it?). Picked the wrong cafe, too close to China Town, on the wrong day. Hey, I'm like a virgin to this, okay! No, I'm not dissing the Chinese: I have my share of relaxing Tao discs. I know the Szechuan cuisine ranks as the best world wide. I might even get a Lenovo laptop, if not a Huwai telephone. But - blame it on the three shots I ordered in my machiato (what do I know how coffee tastes like anymore; what's the difference between a flat white and a machiato and then a tall white, or an espresso machiato? Where did large capuccinos go?) - the whole event (at the city hall) just dripped gunge and tack and cheap-fix-Saturday-filler ooze. The lack of quality and care and simply cohesion and meaning and significance above all made me nauseous. Then again, you might like to blame that machiato.