February 24, 2013 by vinylburns
Observe this, my Mac Daddies.
A crowd clusters around a sporadically lit, gaudy stage, flanked by a small army of dangerously friendly Disney style Pokemon prototypes. Anticipating a family spectacle in line with the high status surrounds of this plaster-of-paris holiday retail husk, they are amped… pumped… gently fussed with the typical excitement of high expectations, rarely met.
They are like a fence full of owls, waiting for a gunfight. (trust me, that’s pretty accurate)
It begins… (the show). They cheer and throw candies at the awkward parade of five-year old girls, forced to wear outfits more than 100 times their own age, (easily the most authentic and satisfying aspect of the whole charade). Their girly names are read out… then their stage names… their dragon names… their legal tax names, and finally, in metric (at least something makes sense), their heights….. and weights.
Yes! It was a kiddie fashion parade. Uncomfortable enough at the best of times (I’ve seen the best of times). This was not the best of times… this was not, in fact, “good times”, at all.
None of this, of course, is for the children. Nor for the audience or families, friends and global strangers.
This, as with all things here, is for the management. Another resounding paper charted success, to be offset against the Million Dollars a minute raked in through the golden trapdoor of this Casino
Happy family clowns, and pretty kiddies competitions pull focus from the sadness, the plastic, the open & pushy prostitution, the money lenders and the inevitable suicides.
Send in the clowns… Don’t worry, we’re here.
The music played throughout, averaging 130 decibels. Awful versions of Malaysian K-Pop, Christmas carols and some American Hip-Hop with particularly fruity lyrics that nobody seemed too upset about. The families stood resilient, their faces pulsing, skin-tight with every saccharine, gangsta’ beat, blasted from the enormous PA system. Their ears… some of them… bleeding.
Nearby, Seven high-powered, black suited, slick haired, Genting Resort Executives flapped around the sound desk.
They perched like corporate bouncers, puffed and proud beside the stage, micro managing the sound technician and hoping, I’m sure, for a glimpse of backstage boob, through the curtain.
These men are blunt tools in a shabby cabinet, poorly designed for anything but bashing out rules, and for tossing carelessly into barely functioning systems.
They are rented suits, on Kevlar strings.
From the shadows, a single, purposeful clown approached, and stood briefly with the men. Moments later, he was gone… like a red nose cowboy into his own sunset.
In his dust, rattled, uncomprehending and assaulted… the dark parliament of suits appeared to contract slightly, in the unfamiliar aura of such frank and jesterly advice.
They shuffled, eyes wide and uncertain, trying to fully process the little clown’s observation, still resonating in their ears.
“It’s too FUCKING loud! What the FUCK is wrong with you Genting FUCKS!”
Might be our last day tomorrow.