Watching the recent spate of awards shows supposedly to acknowledge and celebrate the arts- films, film makers, actresses, actors- please, Natalie Portman, note that actresses were mentioned before actors- musicians, music etc etc, what one has been exposed to is a Hollywood made chain reaction of politics, sermons, self righteous indignation, and hashtags. What the hell was Hillary Clinton doing appearing at the Grammys? There’s Bruno Mars and then there’s Hills reading from the book “Fire And Fury”? Enormously stupid move.
The reading of #FireAndFury and the #Grammys was one of the lowest class things I have ever witnessed on television and I dont get why Hillary Clinton continues to embarrass herself.
Instead of taking a break from #MeToo and #TimesUp, these award shows have become another platform to pummel the senses with speeches and sideshows that often ring hollow as it is more of the same- the same old crocodile tears on the same background, the . same old same old with no answers, no solutions, and no answers to And now what? Time’s up is a nice enough term for a hashtag, and the message behind it, but surely it must be more? How is this hashtag and rah rah speeches from celebrities going to achieve what everyone hopes they achieve?
After Wednesday’s all-weather meeting at Sha Tin- we gave it a miss for a darn good meal at the always reliable Manchu China in Elgin Street- there’s some interesting Group 1 action this afternoon with the running of the Centenary Sprint Cup over 1200 metres metres and the Stewards Cup.
The last race, where there are 4-5 very good new prospects led by Sacred Ibis should sizzle as much as one of Manchu China’s signature dishes- the Sizzling Cumin Lamb. Yes, the race is that good.
And we still Get Back just like Jo Jo though most of us may not be from Arizona. Thanks to Beatle fans around the world uploading rare videos with interviews and sharing their discoveries, we’re finding out more and more about this pretty fab band…and also finding nothing at all. Maybe that’s what keeps the magic of the Beatles alive after all these years- after all these decades: Something new always pops up which then causes a chain reaction of searches on YouTube that can last until Tomorrow Never Knows.
Recently, I was watching a video where George, Paul and Ringo were interviewed reminiscing about some of the tracks they had recorded. George Martin might have been there. None could remember who played guitar on several tracks, or who played bass, and, sometimes, even who was on drums. Let’s not forget that George wasn’t the only “lead guitarist” in the band and Ringo wasn’t the only drummer whereas often Sir Paul and Sir George Martin shared keyboard duties and engineer Geoff Emerick was always in what could be called the final pot pourri mix.
In how many awards shows do the best actually win? How many Oscars, Grammys, Golden Globes and Emmys have got it all wrong with awards going to the wrong people and others being snubbed? How many times was the brilliant Al Pacino passed over for an Oscar before receiving one almost as an apology for hitover-the-top performance in “The Scent Of A Woman”? In this #MeToo year, the Academy Awards have decided to pass on actor James Franco.
Arrogate being named this week as Longines World’s Best Racehorse Horse by being the highest rated racehorse have many up in arms. But what’s done is done and who’ll remember any of this tomorrow? Anyone remember Oprah’s #TimesUp speech at the Golden Globes that trended for around six hours last week?
Kristine entered my life soon after my breakup with Irina and my mother passing away from the dreaded Alzheimer’s disease which turned into full blown dementia. Though divorced by then, Trina flew down to Melbourne many times to keep a promise she had made to herself: My mother should leave this world with dignity. It’s extraordinary everything she did when she could have just walked away. For this, I will be forever in her debt.
As for Kristine, she was introduced to me by two social networking blonde twins in Hong Kong who would make themselves available for the opening of an envelope.
Being Danish, they had met Kristine, an urban planner. on Facebook. She was coming to Hong Kong from Dubai to work on a job for the office out here. She was around 36, divorced, and attractive in a Sandra Bullock way. We met through the twins, went out once, but there were certainly no immediate fireworks. The fireworks and rockets went off after she returned to Dubai and we kept in touch through text messages and phone calls. There was something about her…and phone calls could be very seductive.
Let’s call it The Hashtag Generation. Gawd knows where it started, but I’m guessing it was in a galaxy not that far away called the online world and not that long ago when it was de rigeur to embrace social media and talk about SEO’s- Search Engine Optimisation- and how the “right” hashtags would, or could. elevate one’s “status” on Google, which meant ease of discovery that would result in more visitors to one’s website. Or something like that.
Today, we’re drowning in hashtags- #blacklivesmatter #whitelivesmatter #policelivesmatter #alllivesmatter- and with “metoo and #timesup now leading the charge with Queen Oprah of America in the starring role and ably assisted by aides Meryl Streep, Reese Witherspoon, Nicole Kidman and others with that almighty Star Power.
Before reaching the inevitable breakup, Trina and I threw ourselves into work. Guess it was high avoidance after the death of our wonderful Nipper. The only time I cried during any of our counselling sessions was when asked, Hans, what made you sad? Easy. It was losing Nipper. That little dog kept us together.
By now, Trina was constantly travelling, I was constantly travelling and living pretty much a wannabe rock star lifestyle. There’s no point going into detail, but absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. It takes it everywhere and nowhere until it finally lands somewhere with someone new where words and action have no meaning. It’s often machismo bullshit played out for the peanut gallery.
“Being John Malkovich” is one of my favourite movies. John Malkovich is one of my three favourite actors. And so when seeing John Malkovich trending on Twitter, I feared the worst. Thankfully, the best was yet to come- John Malkovich in a brilliant role as himself for an advertisement for CBS and the AFC Championships.
The decision to cast Malkovich was a stroke of genius. The script and concept seems to have come from someone or a team who have been through the wars with “difficult” clients- you know, those who hire proven professionals in their respective fields, but insist on reducing these people to toadies and order takers and “create” what they think is “advertising” because it’s something that they’ve seen before which must mean that it’s okay.
Recently, more and more people following the world of horse racing are taking sabbaticals from social media, mainly Twitter. Some never come back, Why? In order to return to the real world. Even with all its faults, it’s somewhere with small pockets of beauty and intelligence and the chance to escape from relentless stupidity, triviality and where the terminally needy have found somewhere to belong. Twitter is like an old Barbra Streisand song about people needing people. The difference is that it’s an often irrelevant world that doesn’t really exist nor brings us human beings closer together.
The problem with whether being on Twitter or Facebook is that many of these people who are part of this social media community- and usually hiding behind pseudonyms thinking they can’t be found out, and authorities on everything and everyone and damned be if one were to disagree with them- appear on your timeline, meaning one cannot help but read their Wikipedia knowledge and self obsessed tripe. This creates a chain reaction of negativity.