Pimp My City

The epiphany came with all the subtlety of a bucket of Kiehl’s aftershave in the face. I was shaving with my five-blade, two lubra-strip Watson’s razor followed by a rinse with Dove Blue Cream liquid soap with added Oceanic Freshness, when the thought struck me: “Holy Hang Seng! Hong Kong has pimped out!”

As a new boom economy explodes across the city, unnecessary bells, whistles, jewels, gems, knobs and twiddly bits rain down into every aspect of our lives like shrapnel in Baghdad during rush hour. Hong Kong is experiencing a bling-fling of hip-hop proportions. Has the whole city been mainlining MTV’s “Pimp My Ride”?

As I dress and put on my practical Seiko watch (with a 21-jewel mechanism), I begin to meditate on the city’s new vulgarity: When did it all start? When did we flick over from the austerity of the Sars economy - where everything was staid, solid and frill-free - to the pimped-out times of today? Was it with the opening of Mickey’s Lantau crib last month? Was it when we traded flap-top granddad Tung Chee-hwa for bow-tied Big Don? Or are even more shallow forces at work? A pang of paranoia twists in my stomach. Maybe Hong Kong has been quietly pimping up since the handover. I look at my watch and suddenly realize its 21 jewels would be more useful if they were on the outside.

Heading to work through Central, it’s as if a Hermes veil has been lifted from my eyes. I am walking in a brand new world. Twisting cranes glint in the sun. Shirtless mainlanders crawl across the faces of long-bagged-up buildings, removing their tarpaulin covers to reveal polished renovations beneath. I notice that half the tower blocks in Mid-Levels have been newly clad with mirrored facades: Same buildings, but now pimptastically shiny. And everywhere there are swarms of semi-psychotic estate agents bearing glossy brochures proposing “Chic Urban Living.”

On Hollywood Road I encounter the as yet unfinished Centre Stage Building ($8,700 a square foot). It is fenced off with eight billboards, each showing a portrait of the preferred Centre Stage resident: a two-storey, half-naked, highly sexed Eurasian. I study their expressions and notice that (except for the gay on the end) they are all studiously ignoring me. The building is not yet completed and already I am being snubbed.

Missing old Hong Kong, I decide to stop for egg tarts at the historic Tai Cheong Bakery, home of Chris Patten’s favorite custards. As I step inside I realize its “makeover” is, in fact, a total pimp out. Bigger and glitzier, the family shop now sells $28 Italian latte on the side and has its own PR company.

I arrive at work and take my personal elevator to the Mr. Know-It-All offices on the 97th floor. “Morning Mr. K,” says Ms. Poon, my trusty secretary of 15 years. I notice she is wearing attention-grabbing high heels ($1,800), a chamois-leather skirt ($4,000 and chinchilla T-back ($7,988).