To all my friends who’ve been emailing me asking me why I haven’t blogged, why I’ve missed opportunities to insult that paragon of milk toast, John Roberts, why I haven’t said anything about DeLay or Frist’s latest shenanigans or how I could refrain from commenting on last night’s news about the latest development in Rove’s Plamegate, just let me say this: those Asians over there in Hong Kong kicked my ass and I’ve been too tired to do anything other than watch network TV, which, by the way has left me traumatized because Alias killed off uber-cute spy Michael Vartan.
I will say this about Hong Kong: it’s the best diet I’ve ever been on. When your choices of fine dining include pork knuckles and jellyfish, sliced pig’s ear or chicken maw (dried stomach lining), I’ll settle for just a bottle of that really bad Chilean wine they have. When you go into a supposedly fine restaurant and Conch Y Torro is all they have on the list, you know you ain’t in Kansas anymore. Well, actually, you probably are, but you sure as hell aren’t in Napa, which I now consider sacred ground. To paraphrase the Texans: don’t mess with Napa. Unless you are Sonoma.
The highlight of my Asian trip involved either Americans or Canadians. I’d like to think they were Canadian because it adds to the story, but I never got the chance to find out. Miss Paris (you remember her from earlier blogs) and I were at Totts, on top of the Excelsior, having a late night café latte (pretty sure it was made with Nescafe) when all of a sudden, this band takes the stage.
The lead singer took a detour in 1984 and never looked back. She wore a cabbie hat, a striped shirt with a big wide belt, and knickers. She looked like a bad Pat Benetar, which is saying something. The drummer decided to do a Mohawk style hairdo without getting an actual hair cut. Let’s just say it involved a tube of gel. The bass and guitar players were rejects from Rufus. Then there was the backup singer, the only Asian in the bunch. She was about 6 feet tall and a size zero, and for some reason, had on see-through pants with high-rise yellow underwear. I don’t think it was intended as a fashion statement. In fact, I think the whole band reveled in one large fashion faux pas.
Can anyone explain to me what “T to the O to the R to the Y” means? The lead singer, “Pat” kept saying that. We figured her name was Tory or the band’s name was Tory. Then she would walk into the audience and go up to someone with a mike, who was dancing on the dance floor and go, “Scuse me! Did I ever tell you I’m so proud of you honey bunny?”
Our jaws were dropped the entire set. By the time she did an odd melody of Get Down On It, Every Breath You Take and Boogie Nights our heads were spinning like the Exorcist. I know. I didn’t get that melody either.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any odder, she yells “DRUMS!” while doing a two-armed wave. The drummer flies into a solo, the top of his half-ass mohawked gel thudding around on his head. Then a moment later we hear her say, as she does air guitar, “Give me a little guitar.” Rufus reject did
The highlight was “Da Doo Doo Doo, Da Da Da Da.” Talk about your dadaist moment. The back up singer took over lead vocals and got down and dirty with the audience, handing the mike to old Japanese tourists cutting a rug on the dance floor. They spoke-sang the refrain and left out the “Ls” just like on TV. One man in particular like to point when he shuffled-danced. He mainly pointed at the floor. His rendition of the song was particular poignant as he would not turn the mike back over to the singer and she had to pull it away.
Then there was the blonde lady who liked to simply spin on the dance floor. She spinned like a top. She had an Asian girlfriend who was trying to keep up with her, but could actually dance, and it was getting in the way of her constant spinning.
There really was no way to top this band on the trip, not even the chicken maw. We never found out their name, and they did not play the next night, our final night in Hong Kong.
When people tour a place, a bit of the locale remains with them. The scent of a place, the view from a particular location, the sounds. For me and Miss Paris, our memory of Hong Kong will involve bad food and a really funny, but terrible band of Americans. Or Canadians. We’ll never know.
