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.