By Hans Ebert
You can’t even get your favourite Madras Chicken Curry from Jimmy’s Kitchen in Hong Kong anymore. So how the hell does one expect to be inspired enough to continue with everything else? But one still does. Trudging up those steps. Asking for forgiveness. Seeking redemption. Always searching for that elusive burst of inspiration. Settling for mediocrity because creativity is in such short supply. Listening to talk leading nowhere.
Gave up on reading Bob or Bill’s Big Book years ago that was going to lead to finding that higher power. That was a wasted journey. Cracked. Just another crutch.
Yesterday I went through eight business meetings. All in the same place. Only one made any sense. Why? He was smart. Knew his music. Can write. Really knows this thing called social media. Still excited about new musicians. Like artists from Mongolia. Told me things I never knew. How Hip Hop existed in Mongolia over twenty years ago.
How social media works in Mainland China. Where to use Netease. How to use Weibo. We talked how Bollywood is making inroads into Mainland China. How Scarlett Johansson, the most popular Western actress in China, should perform over there as a singer. Yes, she sings. And pretty well.
It was a different slant on the China market than the natterings of jaded music executives. The same old same olds once with every major and music company playing more musical chairs this time at YouTube and Google and LinkedIn and squirrelling away more millions by screwing over artists. And each other.
The tired thinking of the usual glad handers landing another cushy gig because they’ve kissed the right asses. Again. And, they made their whiteness count. What Asian pride? This only surfaces whenever it’s convenient.
Around 9pm came what turned out to be the last meeting of the day. Apart from that first court and spark session, things had plateaued to a low hum. I realised I hadn’t moved in nine hours. Not even to have a piss. And so I sat there listening to someone drone on.
I listened to the inner me wondering what I had for lunch. Whether I was hungry. And wondered what some pistachio ice cream was doing in front of me.
The droning on about money and no money and having zero business and reminiscing was like a buzz saw going through my head. It took a while to get up. Leave the table. Get home. Gulp down two bottles of water. Absorb it all.
There wasn’t much to absorb other that wonder if we’re all just going through Groundhog Day.
What’s really out there? More horse racing natter? Getting on Twitter and see what’s trending? Nothing that’s ever good “trends”.
In Hong Kong, some expats with a Twitter blue tick to their names have found a new cause célèbre without knowing shit about how this city works. And so the local wannabe makeover artists get together with the indignant expats, who can always return home if things are so bad, and bang the drum loudly. It’s insane.
Who are these blue tick people? Ever understood the trouble it takes to get a blue tick? And for what? Social status? On Twitter?
And so you close the book on the bollocks of online indignation and posturing because tomorrow will be more of the same. And something new to get indignant about. You wish you could do something to wake up the neighbour hood.
You find some shelter from the storm listening to an obscure recording of Dylan singing “It’s A Man’s Man’s Man’s World”. What a difference to the Blue Tick twitterati.
Dylan leads to David Fricke writing about the Beatles’ White Album. You really need to hear it. To help clear out the clutter. And though the songs were and still are snippets of ideas, they work brilliantly because it’s work in progress. You’re happy that they’re bibs and bobs. Happy because there’s no closure. It’s open ended. It’s what could have been but ended up perfect being what it is.
This is where so many have it wrong. Worried about showing the pockmarks. Scared to say that they don’t know something. Seems like everybody has to know something about everything. It’s what drives the Blue Tick People.
Guess as usual the Beatles had them pegged right. Especially John. They’re the Blue Meanies.
They’re Nowhere Man making all their nowhere plans for nobody.
Clueless even about the disappearance of Jimmy’s Kitchen’s iconic Madras Chicken Curry. This should be trending. A hashtag. Something new for the Blue Tick Twitterati to get behind. And don’t forget to protest about the roasted potatoes.
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