Night Creatures

With a weekend of heavy riding ahead, this Friday night in town will be tame by any standard, but a Friday Night nonetheless. Some friend of a friend is hosting a costume party at some shwanky dance spot, and we're not to arrive at Vanilla without a "duo" costume. Fine. Smart young lads we are, we throw on jeans, jackets and aviators and it's out the door into rain-glittered streets.

Drinks on tap this evening are ice water or Coke, but the creature inside you still comes out. It can't be stopped, it's not negotiable, it's your inner imp-child.
What's you're trigger?
A song from Thriller blasting through the room? The lasers and pulses hitting right on time to Prince's maniacal wail? The Afro-ed, the wigged, the cowboys and indians churning into your memory? Minds shut down and creatures come through, and before you can say "the night's on fire" the floor is ours, we're tearing this place apart with moves and crazy life you've never seen. Air conditioning and open windows don't help because the night isn't on fire, you are. You have no control over your feet, over your golden legs; for a few short hours you loose it all completely. Alas, lateness happens. "Morning" is still a way off, but sunrise a mere 3 hours from now. The bike racer inside overrules the manic creature and it's like Prince says, "Parties aren't meant to last." And just like that it's on to Foodtown.

Foodtown never closes. 24 hours flourescent, these aisles never sleep, they never go dark. So any hour of the night we roam. Fighting alchoholic haze or tonight's sober restlesness we travel these aisles, searching. We search for opportunity, for open containers, unintended samples of wares we wouldnt buy; for lost souls and midnight vultures. Every night worth living in Auckland gives Foodtown its shot at glory, fame and usefullness. If you keep it open we will come. We pass hair dye and skateboards, peaches, wine and racks of magazines. Maybe this one is the one youve been looking for all along, this deodorant/shaving cream/boxer shorts value pack. Open it up, see what's inside. It's a mad search, a carefull trawl for specials and sales. 3 dollar pack of fake crab meat (it's huge), buy it. Eat it. 2 dollars for a gallon of grape juice, buy it. Drink it. 4 dollars for some other chilly beverage, buy it. Drink it. 6 Dollars for a whole rotisserie roasted chicken. Eat the whole damn thing, it's from foodtown, it's 3:00 in the morning, it's law.

Have a bloody thousand.

We're not here for any purpose, there's nothing we need tonight. You pass people walking down the aisles any hour of the night with a list in hand, shopping to feed themselves, maybe even a family. They travel to this place with a goal, a mission. You pass three twenty year olds drifting down the rivers of chips and dog food, they're traveling for the sake of travelling. They're noticing things you'll never see on your way to pasta sauce and coffee. They know the store, they know it like the way home and every change is something new to take up time and stall for tommorow, because that's all that's really happening here. Maybe it's back to Univerity in a week, back to work tommorow, or just daylight and excercise but for now this Ninja Turtle skateboard holds focus, the peaks of toilet paper might somehow hold the key to the night. Stutterstepping all the way. Look around you, not ahead. DT