harbin

Beer is a sweet beverage since the old ages and from the antic aegyptian tombs to the modern brewers with their copper alambics,  it is, with its myriads of bubbles, more than a champagne, a golden potion of enchantment and pleasure. Not as whiskey with its marsh fragrance might be, nore Chartreuse with its many plants essences certainly is, but  still,  beer is a friendly drink. 
Maybe because of the posters of gals sunbathing on yachts,  maybe because of hords of students invading Belgian streets, under the eye of a desperate Poirot, maybe because of a chinese britanny harbour with its german green bottles dispatched in each and every chinese restaurant of the world.
But beer has its own way. Beer has its tradition. And belgian students tell us a lot about it. Because there, beers, you drink dozens of them in a night, dressed in a medics white blouse, students call their hearth (somehow because beer drinking is a hard chore for beginners), hearth that for long is no more white but frog skin spotted.
Let our cauldron bubble, and Scottie, be friend with our McCoy (is the doctor scottish himself? Would explain some  habits of his... Starfleet to inquire...), so, let's drink the marvelous liquid, making us see double. Double.
Beer is also a source of humour, therefore, people dive deeply in its bottle in search of amusing stories.
Remains that some people don't know how to drink. Drinking beer is an art. And it's a pity to discover so many kind people lost in alcoholic vapors, like if a Dementor had kissed them, making them say  bad things and behaving weirder.
So a drink you proposed, and I'd rather have something quite different that cannot be found in 7/11, but resides in heaven palace. Sunwukong drinks wonderful drinks and eat peaches.  He doesn't need  a bill  to buy them (the one he keeps in his wallet) for  he's in charge of the garden; nore need is to flew so he waters them in an old pot, happy as a little devil back to the future would be (Shanghaian tradition, naturally;)

French gardening is a famous hooby since King Louis the XIV decided to have the largest and most extraordinary garden Europe had ever seen in his times and for decades to follow.  French gardening is an art, is a complete science involving the latest technologies of the time as it was deployed on the vast woods of Versailles. 
French use to consider their gardening as a way of giving an order to the landscapes and rivers where their king, sun, and center of the universe rules, allmighty, superior to any deity of the universe, known and to be discovered. (When little later Louisiane will be sold, French  will think they get rid of a small county full of mosquitoes and exiled bandits with their lovers of fortune, far away, far away from the center of the universe they unhabit.)
It is one reason, or maybe one result of the French mind, making French people different in a manner, that push them to  handle the world and the creation as an object to be fashioned.  It is a fact that Nature in France is never gigantic or a tremendous in its unleashed works. And as a result it has always given French people this arrogant  feeling that they were to  change the  natural conditions using their brains and muscles: Suez and Panama are somehow the kind of fruit generated by this french feeling.
Perspective, straight line,  planned , cut, organised like battallions, the gardens of Versailles, are to be the sign of the almighty king's power.
But far from their labyrinths, their bosquets, their articial lakes for small galleons to take the king and his conquests to the distant lands of thousand and one silky nights, French, nowadays retire in gardens that they consider as private islands far from the intrusive society with its technology.
Gardens are to be harbours where poets can, once again, escaped from pestilent parisian salons, use their tongue and let their heart express the totality of their hurt hearts while their friends play the string instruments or blow some envouting  melody. Shall they be arabian strings, african percussions,  chinese cello, japanese bamboo flutes, within the garden and far away from the snake, they share the simple joy of having friends by their sides. One has a white peony in hand, one offers the water of his old desert gourd, another offers some roses to the cita player. All of them smile and enjoy the present hour for tea before white alcohol flows  into they loving chests. And the stars, watered eyes of the sky, give them an esquisite glance, their protective blessing,  as their united songs fill the azurean sky.

Ball, any  child in the world experienced the pleasure to play with, to kick it, to receive it and to exchange it with others on a way to the goal or the basket. Very young, I remember I was running on a grass field after the black and white one and we spent hours a day playing soccer, whether it was sunny or rainy day, never wondering about mud and blood we often were covered with after we've scealled our common spring in the action.
Ball, it maybe the reason why we love you so much, flying over our heads, like a shooting star, while your circle is like a wonderful spin uniting us in one energy. Ball, you're round, and within our hands your a perfect sun, a marvelous moon, an unrevealed earth soft and firm, a symbol of the small planet we all unhabit, little creatures in a square of the galaxy. Ball even dragons play with you.
Ball, you maybe small or big, leather, plastic, colored or just an old one we've played with during decades, always, you are this perfection we need to touch since our eyes meet you. Ball, you're lovely.
I remember the cartoon of the wonderful team, the Harlem Globe Trotter,  when the music was mesmirizing us, during the first minute, the basketball turning on the top of an index. This we'd do. This, we spent hours training and doing as a magical trick. Let me show you, now, here it is, with a kick of my big thumb, let's give it enough speed and turn, turn , turn. Magical!  That's what we should call a goldenfinger trick, and though I'm not that fond of basket ball (ah, this whistle: walking! , of course, I'm walking...) , though I'm not that tall, I always liked the goldenfinger trick. And many of us around the world learned it, watching carefully the cartoon, ready to share and enjoy this common trick we a.l enjoy. Furthermore it's a great pleasure when friends  are coming to visit us from far, some, even having flewn from the other side of the blue ball.  And from this moment on and for many decades, together, we'll play the ball. ;)