Promoting records in Taiwan is a real chore. It’s work work work. Never ending appearances, six or seven TV shows a day, two months of concerts, last second connecting flights around the island, and endless getting in and out of taxis. The pace never stops. It’s a grueling road show of presidential campaign proportions. Every once-in-a-while you stare out the window, gazing at the passing scenery, and think to yourself, “Gosh, I’m hungry.” But forget that idea. There’s no time to stop and eat in this business. No way Jose. People are expecting you. You’re late. The show has been moved ahead. You’re going to shake hands with the mayor. There might be traffic. You need to do makeup. We were late last time. And my all time favorite: Maybe later.
Ever wonder why most of the artists you see on TV are anemic? They look like a thin twig blowing in the breeze, and that’s after the ten extra pounds that TV adds. The reason is simple. Your Favorite Superstar hasn’t eaten a decent meal in four days. I’m not exaggerating. Food is a big deal when all you’re doing is being rushed from one TV studio to another. It becomes a beacon of hope in what otherwise is a meaningless existence. You sing a song, do a dance, smile at the cameras, but what’s really in your mind is “Can I eat now?” Sounds a lot like Sammy the Seal’s life at Seaworld.
So what does the busy Taiwan artist on the run eat? The glorious bien dang of course. And what’s that? It’s a boxed lunch consisting of soggy rice, two blobs of vegetables, some tiny see-through spicy fishies, half an egg, and some variation of meat/seafood thrown in on top. All this is crammed into a handy Styrofoam container with rubber bands around it, and comes with a bag of soup, a yogurt drink, and some chopsticks.
We show business people eat these things religiously in the back of speeding taxis, or behind peeling plaster board stage sets, or squatting together Neanderthal like in the makeup room between TV interviews. Actually I have become quite adept at bouncing down Chung Hsiao East Road in the back of a taxi, 4-wheeling over the rutted remains of the MRT construction, balancing a bien dan precariously in one hand and picking at the remains of a cold squid head in the other, while trying desperately not to squirt any nasty purple squid juice on my new Armani promotion outfit. There’s no time to change in between shows.
You thought we were wined and dined at exclusive celebrity haunts, no reservations needed, hiding our pathologically bored expression behind a pair of thick-rimmed Versace sunglasses. Actually that’s for superstar wannabes weenies. In reality, try to picture this: Your Favorite Superstar is lip-syncing their new hit song on TV. The Solid Gold Dancers are doing their sequined curlicues and feathered pirouettes behind a tear gas screen. The last note is sung, the red light on top of the camera goes off, and the singer looks over to the producer and screams “Do I smell a bien dang?” Everyone leaps off the stage and it’s mass hysteria as people elbow their way to the bien dang box in the makeup room. It’s clattering chopsticks and snapping rubber bands, not the Los Tacky Amigos Trio featured in the Rainbow Room, that serenade Your Favorite Superstar, who squats unceremoniously over the garbage dumpster trying to shovel in as much cold rice as possible before the next gig.
No glamour here folks. No candlelit dinners. Just a mad dash out the door, licking bits of meat product from the corner of your mouth. Ahh, like that old classic Irving Berlin song says, “There’s no business like show business like no business I know. Everything about it is appealing. Everything the traffic will allow. Nowhere could you get that happy feeling when you are stealing that extra that extra bow.”
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