So here I am, near the window, watching all the people at this party, and making snarky judgements. I feel like Iggy Pop. "I am the Passenger, and I ride and I ride." echoes through my head. More beardy twats, in skinny jeans and beanies seem to be everywhere. Probably full of smug trendy left-wing political opinions too. Fuckwits read Chomsky, and seem to think that somehow they've been gifted with some profound insight into the nature of the way world works, which mostly consists of the revelation that America is the source of all evil. I'm better than them. Of course America's evil. But it's less evil than practically everybody else.
This is however,a good vantage to check out the sizeable female contingent tonight. I step outside onto Cheryl's balcony, light a cigarette, and lean back. It's easy here. I can see tonight, that there's a sizeable turnout. I look to my right. There, a short, cute girl with a pretty face giggles at one of her friend's jokes. I find those kind of girls fun. They're none too dangerous, and easy enough to approach. I ponder whether to go over, or keep looking. A gorgeous, long-legged statuesque creature moves gracefully through the crowd. Trouble with the truly beautiful girls is that, nearly ninety per cent of the time, they realise just how gorgeous they are. Surprisingly, they're also easy enough to approach, simply because they're not used to it. But they're not dangerous. You won't be trapped.
Yes, truly beautiful girls are impossible to fall in love with. It's like admiring the Taj Mahal. Sure, a gorgeous edifice. But is there any hope it will someday belong to you? Hence, it's not the really gorgeous girls one has to be wary of. If one plays his cards right, one can get a friend, potentially with benefits, an ideal relationship from my perspective.
I'm having a conversation at this point with an imaginary feminist who lives in my head. She probably moved there during a history lecture last year. Surely, she comments, what I'm doing is objectification of women, reducing them to a commodity, as opposed to the real, flesh and blood, human beings they are?
Valid point.
But surely commodification has been universal in human society from the dawn of our species, instead of merely being a product of present-day consumer capitalism. Hell, in feudal society, a woman was essentially a chattel. And even men commodify themselves all the time now. A politician, for example, is essentially selling himself or herself as a product.
True, my inner feminist says, but surely women have suffered harder from being viewed as commodities than men? And in this right, why I am I looking at them and assigning them values based on my arbitary preferences as opposed to their intrinsic worth as human beings?
Oh for fuck's sake. I temporarily smother my inner feminist, and carry on with my activities. And for sure, I am commodifying these girls. But I see myself as a connoisseur, rather than some leering pervert. If you're going to objectify people, may as well make them works of art, a Caravaggio, or a Rembrandt, as opposed to some piece of meat you finish with and discard. Hence why I've been on good terms with every girl I've ever slept with.
"SUP BRO!"
It's at this point a hand slaps me on the back, hard. I turn around, to look into the face of Kirk Douglas, our resident Marxist intellectual. Yes, his parents named him Kirk Douglas. Bitterly ironic, in hindsight, since he grew into a scrawny, dialectic spouting youth with a decided acne problem, which he refers to as the 'insurgency'. I turn and offer him the traditional handshake of two young men in early 21st century New Zealand, a fumbling, throttled gesture which seems to be some lame attempt to copy some kind of American frat-house greeting sign. "How's it been, man?" I ask. "Reasonably good. All things understood, my prognosis for the nocturnal hours at this juncture is that they will be most fortunate for our interests." Translate. "Having a good time then?"
"Unquestionably"
Kirk has a weary, sarcastic, languid manner about him. There's something of Humphrey Bogart in the way he carries himself. Pity that he sounds instead like Sir Humphrey Appleby from Yes Minister instead, whenever he opens his mouth.Sometimes, I think, girls would be all over Kirk, if they could understand anything that came out of his mouth. Or if he didn't harangue them about the need to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with all progressive forces against the imperialist forces of finance capital.
I stand around, holding my drink, smoking my cigarette, joking with Kirk for a while. As he prepares to lecture me about the impending sale of New Zealand by the Key Government to nefarious foreign interests, something grabs my attention.
Could it be? Nah. Not here. She wouldn't be here. I'm sure no one knows her. This isn't the first time I've thought a complete stranger was her, owing to a similarity in hairstyle, or a similar manner of walking. Yes, there is no way the mysterious girl with black shoulder-length hair, wearing her perennial red coat, with her back to me is her. Now, when she turns around, all my fears will be allayed.
"Basically, as our sovereignty is gradually eroded, we stand to become increasingly rootless, severed from any authentic experience"
"uh-huh"
Fuck's sake, Kirk. Go talk to that blonde over there. She's been trying to make eye contact with you all evening. Give her a Red revolution, if you know what I mean.
Yes. The mystery girl is turning around. I ready myself to heave a huge sigh of relief. Only to feel my intestines seize up, and my blood run cold. There she is, in all her painful glory.
Oh shit. HER. But...here? Why now? Oh fuck. But there she is, surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, both male and female. Or perhaps not. Maybe she's just friends with one person there, and is part of the group. Why do I attribute such supernatural powers to one person. Fuck. Jesus. She hasn't seen me. Must escape. Kirk realises I'm distracted.
"Yo, you following me as to the decline of the welfare state in the last quarter of the 20th century?"
"Yeah...I'm sorry man."
Bring him close. I hiss. "SHE's here!"
"Oh. Sorry, yes I can see why your limbs appear to be moving involuntarily, and your eyes appear extremely agitated."
"MUST escape!"
Thankfully, I see a face in which I can find a temporary refuge. The cutie who was entertaining her friend has made her way over to the balcony. If I somehow end up going home with this one, it will reduce the chances of me bumping into yes, well, HER tonight. i seriously have no contingency plan, other than gritting my teeth and hoping she never sees me. If she says hi, we might have another wonderful, life-changing, conversation, and I'll be back where I started. I buck myself up, and prepare to work on cutie.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Candidate.
So there we are then, an imposing white building somewhere in downtown Auckland. Having dodged several waves of evangelical Christians and Hare Krishnas, like some deranged game of Pac Man, I am keen as fuck for a drink. I make my way up to the entrance. Three Chinese guys hang around the door, talking in Mandarin. Or Cantonese? Doesn't matter really, I can't understand either. Occasionally they seem to burst out laughing for no particular reason, making me feel as if I'm in some surreal music video directed by David Lynch. Time to get on the lift. Sixth floor this is. Room 613. Potential bad luck? Hah. In my case, I'm hoping that the luck I bring with me will cancel out any unfortunate implications the number carries with it. Clench teeth. There we are. 613. Step out. Thankfully, I was alone on the lift. I hate nothing more than being trapped in a confined space with three or four total strangers, being left there to grin awkwardly, and contemplate how awful the others' teeth are, and whether any of them are English. Time to knock. Three taps. Don't want to sound too ominous. Or maybe I should.
Our gracious hostess answers the door. "Oh my God, hi Jay! It's been so long!"(I figured it's about time you learned my name, humble eavesdropper) I'm momentarily taken aback as this compact thing, swathed in white, with a cascade of shoulder-length hair envelops me in her arms. My nose is assailed by the strong scent of cheap perfume, possibly bought at an outlet store. "Good to see you too", I mumble weakly. I've never understood the urge girls feel to hug absolutely everything. It puts me slightly off, and in the worst possible outcome, gives me an erection. She enquires a bit about how I am, with regards to health, employment prospects, and academia. I answer pretty much on autopilot, only steering well clear of the dreaded ex-boyfriend, my friend, Jake. Her face seems to be one of those feminine ones that seems to be perpetually concerned. Despite all her bohemian affectations, I have a feeling Cheryl McPherson will probably be most at home as a middle aged PTA member, earnestly worrying about nasty men who hang around primary school carparks. Just then, another knock on the door grabs her attention. I seize the opportunity to exit discreetly. Time to check out the crowd.
Our gracious hostess answers the door. "Oh my God, hi Jay! It's been so long!"(I figured it's about time you learned my name, humble eavesdropper) I'm momentarily taken aback as this compact thing, swathed in white, with a cascade of shoulder-length hair envelops me in her arms. My nose is assailed by the strong scent of cheap perfume, possibly bought at an outlet store. "Good to see you too", I mumble weakly. I've never understood the urge girls feel to hug absolutely everything. It puts me slightly off, and in the worst possible outcome, gives me an erection. She enquires a bit about how I am, with regards to health, employment prospects, and academia. I answer pretty much on autopilot, only steering well clear of the dreaded ex-boyfriend, my friend, Jake. Her face seems to be one of those feminine ones that seems to be perpetually concerned. Despite all her bohemian affectations, I have a feeling Cheryl McPherson will probably be most at home as a middle aged PTA member, earnestly worrying about nasty men who hang around primary school carparks. Just then, another knock on the door grabs her attention. I seize the opportunity to exit discreetly. Time to check out the crowd.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Party Fears Two
Walk into the liquor store like you belong. Don't look like a criminal. I nod, in what I assume is a confident manner, at the Korean shopkeeper. I know he's Korean because growing up tough on the mean streets of Auckland's eastern suburbs means I know not all Asians are the same. The hangul script scrawled all over his calendar also seals his origin in my head. Yay. Two multiculturalism points for you. Collect $200 when you pass go.
Though I've been 21 for two months now, liquor stores still carry for me, a vague hint of menace. Probably an unfortunate hangover (pardon the term) from my days as a 16 year old rebel, purchasing underage alcohol for all and sundry, under my trusty alter ego, Ahmed Mehsud, a 23 year old Pakistani organ donor from the North Shore. I still keep the old battered ID in my wallet, for nostalgia's sake, and as a few friends would say, 'for the lulz'. Thank God no one in this country is aware enough to question why exactly a young Muslim man is buying a shiteload of alcohol.
Now for the arduous task of actually selecting something. This is something that actually requires a great deal of finesse. Selecting different kinds of alcohol for different kinds of crowds is a very precise action. One doesn't swagger into a room full of aspiring young professionals clutching a six pack of Lion Red or Tui. Actually, you can, but only if you're a chump who doesn't want to draw attention to himself. My fancy is captured by the green bottle of absinth perched above the owner's head. Suddenly I have a vision of myself as some sort of debauched French poet, a Rimbaud, a Verlaine, or an Alfred Jarry, impressing everyone with my outrageous, scatological wit, unleashing a torrent of witty, barbed invective and innuendo. And then some likely looking blonde thing will take me to a nearby bedroom and suck me off. Smashing.
"Can I have some of that Czech absinthe?"
"$69"
This is what I like about Asian shopkeepers. Straight to the point. No anxious inquiries about your liquor holding ability. Unlike that Indian lady across the street, who seems to think I'm some sort of errant son. After a while, the choking atmosphere of maternal affection got too much for me. I get enough of that at home!
A while later, transaction concluded, I exit the store, strutting like DeNiro's Johnny Boy. Phone buzzes. Fumble around in pocket. Retrieve. Read.
"bro tell me if u pull n e thng 2nyt"
From:Curtis
Oh for fuck's sake. How on earth does someone capable of getting straight A's in advanced theoretical physics regress to the level of a ten year old with Down's Syndrome when it comes to expressing themselves via text message? This fascination with my sex life is also a bit unhealthy. Guy needs to get out there. Then again, the last time he was 'out there', Curtis Wong managed to somehow alienate six extremely pretty, easy-going girls, by somehow bringing up the regularity of his pubic shaving. On second thoughts, stay where you are, my man.
I'm reasonably convinced western civilisation is doomed. Texts like Curtis' are one of the main reasons. I still remember hanging around an indie bar somewhere in Ponsonby, and striking up a conversation with a pretty raven-haired girl with glasses. A discussion of Kurt Vonnegut had turned into me somehow giving away my number.
Two days later:
"Hey u gd 2 tlk 2 u da othr nght"
That was that.
Nudging my way through a group of Hare Krishnas, I make my way toward the apartment complex. Time to get my groove on.
Though I've been 21 for two months now, liquor stores still carry for me, a vague hint of menace. Probably an unfortunate hangover (pardon the term) from my days as a 16 year old rebel, purchasing underage alcohol for all and sundry, under my trusty alter ego, Ahmed Mehsud, a 23 year old Pakistani organ donor from the North Shore. I still keep the old battered ID in my wallet, for nostalgia's sake, and as a few friends would say, 'for the lulz'. Thank God no one in this country is aware enough to question why exactly a young Muslim man is buying a shiteload of alcohol.
Now for the arduous task of actually selecting something. This is something that actually requires a great deal of finesse. Selecting different kinds of alcohol for different kinds of crowds is a very precise action. One doesn't swagger into a room full of aspiring young professionals clutching a six pack of Lion Red or Tui. Actually, you can, but only if you're a chump who doesn't want to draw attention to himself. My fancy is captured by the green bottle of absinth perched above the owner's head. Suddenly I have a vision of myself as some sort of debauched French poet, a Rimbaud, a Verlaine, or an Alfred Jarry, impressing everyone with my outrageous, scatological wit, unleashing a torrent of witty, barbed invective and innuendo. And then some likely looking blonde thing will take me to a nearby bedroom and suck me off. Smashing.
"Can I have some of that Czech absinthe?"
"$69"
This is what I like about Asian shopkeepers. Straight to the point. No anxious inquiries about your liquor holding ability. Unlike that Indian lady across the street, who seems to think I'm some sort of errant son. After a while, the choking atmosphere of maternal affection got too much for me. I get enough of that at home!
A while later, transaction concluded, I exit the store, strutting like DeNiro's Johnny Boy. Phone buzzes. Fumble around in pocket. Retrieve. Read.
"bro tell me if u pull n e thng 2nyt"
From:Curtis
Oh for fuck's sake. How on earth does someone capable of getting straight A's in advanced theoretical physics regress to the level of a ten year old with Down's Syndrome when it comes to expressing themselves via text message? This fascination with my sex life is also a bit unhealthy. Guy needs to get out there. Then again, the last time he was 'out there', Curtis Wong managed to somehow alienate six extremely pretty, easy-going girls, by somehow bringing up the regularity of his pubic shaving. On second thoughts, stay where you are, my man.
I'm reasonably convinced western civilisation is doomed. Texts like Curtis' are one of the main reasons. I still remember hanging around an indie bar somewhere in Ponsonby, and striking up a conversation with a pretty raven-haired girl with glasses. A discussion of Kurt Vonnegut had turned into me somehow giving away my number.
Two days later:
"Hey u gd 2 tlk 2 u da othr nght"
That was that.
Nudging my way through a group of Hare Krishnas, I make my way toward the apartment complex. Time to get my groove on.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Greetings from Albert Park.
"That'll be $11.70," mumbles the ambiguously looking Middle Eastern gentleman behind the counter of the Queen Street convenience store. I cautiously hand him my EFTPOS card, as I gingerly accept my purchase of Marlboro Reds, the skint student's favourite brand of cigarette. The man is tall and wiry, with a wisp of a beard, and wrinkles around his eyes. Ina bad light, I reflect, he might be mistaken for President Ahmadinejad of Iran. I briefly ponder why Ahmadinejad would leave his job to take up owning a convenience store in downtown Auckland. Perhaps to better slay the Western infidels by selling them cigarettes, through which Allah will induce lung cancer, and energy drinks which will deprive them of sleep and make them unfit to face the warriors of the Mahdi. The shopkeeper's smile snaps me out of this brief reverie. The card, has despite my worst fears, been accepted.
Watching the EFTPOS machine's screen, while it says "Processing Now' is possibly one of the most terrifying ordeals modern life in New Zealand has to offer, especially if one has been unemployed for a reasonable amount of time, surviving hand to mouth, doing odd jobs. I still remember a few months ago, waiting in line to purchase a book at the uni bookstore, striking up a conversation with the pretty German exchange student just behind me, and watching as the words "Declined" ended whatever chance I had of possibly walking away with a number. The phrase, "You go, big baller" echoed mercilessly in my head, said with a merciless Teutonic precision. Which is funny, because she never said anything, simply walking out with barely a glimmer of recognition. Ouch. The walk was enough to say it. I'm pretty sure she thought it, and I somehow picked up on it. Yeah, because you form a psychic bond with random girls you meet in bookshops on a more or less regular basis. God I'm a twat.
Agenda for tonight? Party at friend's ex-girlfriend's place. Awkward? Perhaps. I have no clue why I got invited to this thing, to tell you the truth. Me and Curtis did sit on a couch for hours on end, trying to figure that one out.
"Maybe Cheryl wants to bone you?'
"Fuck off. No way. Her and Jake finished like, what a month ago? She knows I'm good mates with him. She probably just wants me along to add colour to her 'scene'. You know what a pretentious little shit she is. She wants a slightly exotic drunk to come along and spout shit about 'radical change', and 'opening the public sphere'."
"So Kirk's gonna be there?"
"Yeah"
Silence.
"So you gonna go, then?"
"Yeah, fuck it. There might be plenty of pretentious-but-thick Fine Arts girls hanging around."
I nudge past the pedestrians along Queen Street, toward the apartment complex where this latter-day version of Warhol's factory is to be held. I'm sure Cheryl thinks this is going to be rather like one of those ancient Greek symposia, where a bunch of wise, witty men lay around couches drinking wine, discussing philosophy, and engaging in homosexual flirtation. Personally, I'd be glad if i can get out of there having seen a few chicks making out.
"Hey man, I love your leather jacket. You look like James Brown, the actor" says a wilfully confused young man, trying to palm off a Bible. I have a strong desire for a few seconds to walk downtown wearing an immense orange cape, a flamboyant pompadour, and yellow platform shoes.
Why does religion kill pop-culture awareness? Is there a portion somewhere in the Bible that states being hip is an abomination in the eyes of God? Admittedly, I feel a little quiver of delight as I imagine all the bearded, check shirt wearing, thick glass sporting bastards who listen to bands with names like 'Michael and Zelda', and 'A November Day's Rain' screaming in agony, as Beelzebub fails to respect their superior taste.
Tonight might be good after all. But first, let's get some booze.
Watching the EFTPOS machine's screen, while it says "Processing Now' is possibly one of the most terrifying ordeals modern life in New Zealand has to offer, especially if one has been unemployed for a reasonable amount of time, surviving hand to mouth, doing odd jobs. I still remember a few months ago, waiting in line to purchase a book at the uni bookstore, striking up a conversation with the pretty German exchange student just behind me, and watching as the words "Declined" ended whatever chance I had of possibly walking away with a number. The phrase, "You go, big baller" echoed mercilessly in my head, said with a merciless Teutonic precision. Which is funny, because she never said anything, simply walking out with barely a glimmer of recognition. Ouch. The walk was enough to say it. I'm pretty sure she thought it, and I somehow picked up on it. Yeah, because you form a psychic bond with random girls you meet in bookshops on a more or less regular basis. God I'm a twat.
Agenda for tonight? Party at friend's ex-girlfriend's place. Awkward? Perhaps. I have no clue why I got invited to this thing, to tell you the truth. Me and Curtis did sit on a couch for hours on end, trying to figure that one out.
"Maybe Cheryl wants to bone you?'
"Fuck off. No way. Her and Jake finished like, what a month ago? She knows I'm good mates with him. She probably just wants me along to add colour to her 'scene'. You know what a pretentious little shit she is. She wants a slightly exotic drunk to come along and spout shit about 'radical change', and 'opening the public sphere'."
"So Kirk's gonna be there?"
"Yeah"
Silence.
"So you gonna go, then?"
"Yeah, fuck it. There might be plenty of pretentious-but-thick Fine Arts girls hanging around."
I nudge past the pedestrians along Queen Street, toward the apartment complex where this latter-day version of Warhol's factory is to be held. I'm sure Cheryl thinks this is going to be rather like one of those ancient Greek symposia, where a bunch of wise, witty men lay around couches drinking wine, discussing philosophy, and engaging in homosexual flirtation. Personally, I'd be glad if i can get out of there having seen a few chicks making out.
"Hey man, I love your leather jacket. You look like James Brown, the actor" says a wilfully confused young man, trying to palm off a Bible. I have a strong desire for a few seconds to walk downtown wearing an immense orange cape, a flamboyant pompadour, and yellow platform shoes.
Why does religion kill pop-culture awareness? Is there a portion somewhere in the Bible that states being hip is an abomination in the eyes of God? Admittedly, I feel a little quiver of delight as I imagine all the bearded, check shirt wearing, thick glass sporting bastards who listen to bands with names like 'Michael and Zelda', and 'A November Day's Rain' screaming in agony, as Beelzebub fails to respect their superior taste.
Tonight might be good after all. But first, let's get some booze.
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