hakopais my name in Maori.

Speaking of shots, after landing one in Halo 3 you don’t have to clean up the mess.

You can fire your gun as many times as you like in Halo 3. You can reload in a second and get that double and triple kill and God forbid an overkill of four. Good luck getting a triple thrill in the sack on a cold night.

You can always wear your big green space suit while playing Halo 3. Good luck wearing a green and gold spartan helmet with your nearest and dearest when playing ‘hide the sausage’.

Halo 3 doesn’t get upset if you play with more than one Xbox. With sex, you are generally lucky to have a box to slip your dick in.

If your gun in Halo 3 fires bolts of green fire, people will admire you. If your gun, while having sex fires green, see a doctor, like now. Seriously, now.

I hate ZZ Top, and they certainly weren’t the reason I went into the CD store. They were some of the reason I went back.

The morning was a haze. Coastal sunlight beating down on thickening traffic as I ambled toward my place of work.

My thoughts were simple, and usual. There was of course the meaning of life and when it might end, and who could be there when it did, and what “crossing over” might be like. My bank balance was good and I also thought of things to buy. Simple things.

As is my habit, I tried to avoid looking at the folk I passed as we collectively ambled in and out of the town – the “in” or “out” depending on our respective aims and objectives on that day.

My aims were straightforward. To buy something, anything, and then go to work.

I stopped at an outlet CD store, briefly considered the merits of adding to my collection, entered the store and moved toward the Alt/Punk section.

I enjoy the fleeting feeling of uniqueness that always comes with being middle-aged and office-bound and scanning the Alt/Punk racks.

Coming to a band the name of which began with the letter G, I selected the fourth in a series of four albums and proceeded to the counter to make my purchase.

At the counter, expectantly standing with a friendly sort of lean, was the finest woman I had seen in a very long time. I say fine because she was more than beautiful, or pretty, or any of the countless other words oft used in connection with good looking women. She was stunning, and tanned, and sensual, and just… well… very brunette, very stylish and very desirable.

Mesmerised, I pushed the empty CD case and my credit card across to her.

She smiled. I tried to smile back, then realised I had forgotten to close my mouth. So I gaped I suppose, but I didn’t care. In middle age, a man should surely be allowed to.

She took the CD case and held it up before her. She didn’t ask why I liked the band, nor indeed did she say anything at all. She turned toward a chest containing four enormous drawers, one atop the other, that was set into the wall behind her.

By then I had closed my mouth, but it became the turn of my eyes to begin an unheeded dance within their confines on my face. They noticed that this object of perfection was dressed in the simplest one piece skirt that extended just below what I assumed would be a glorious tan line at the top of her thighs.

I immediately drew upon my spiritual resources and sought to look away, but could not. I in fact prayed that the contents of my recently selected CD would be at the bottom of the fourth drawer down, and that all my hopeless Christmases and lifetime disappointments would be swept away by a simple bend at the waist.

At that moment, my life and where it had been and would possibly go to became all tangled up in the chance of seeing that tan line.

The CD was in fact in the second drawer from the top, so I saw nothing. She turned back to me, smiled gloriously, and processed my purchase.

I walked back into the sun, realising that I was not unique but a man among men. I should have seen that tan line. I briefly searched the sky for God and, seeing nothing, walked to my office.

It was there that I told a co-worker about my purchase and ‘the encounter’, and questioned the poor fortune (or otherwise) of my CD being in the second drawer and not the fourth. They suggested that this may not have been simple luck, but a trick of the alphabet. They reasoned that since the alphabet begins with an A and ends with a Z, a CD by a band with a name beginning with G would of course be in the first or second drawers, while a band beginning with Z would be in the fourth.

I thought immediately of ZZ Top, and then could think of nothing else but the CD store, the woman, and the enormous drawers.

The sun was no higher in the sky when I re-entered. She was there behind the counter and smiled, and this time I smiled back – briefly thanking God for all of humanity’s senses and for not entirely or commonly including ESP among them.

I sauntered over to the Alt/Punks, this time brushing past a large Pop/Rock cabinet set in the middle of the floor. As I did so, I stuck my fingers in the Z’s and as fate would have it pulled free a copy of ZZ Top’s greatest hits. Full price for bad sounds, but I didn’t care. I was no longer behaving in a way that an economist could mark on a graph and explain, so I didn’t need to.

I briefly surveyed the Alt/Punk racks, stood tall, and went to the counter once again where CDs were bought and paid for.

“Me again” I said, but she said nothing and held the CD up before her. I tried to focus, but at that very time a large hole had opened in the bottom of my stomach and a shrill voice from within was telling me that I was not a man among men as previously thought, that this was not even normal and that I was not normal and if this woman knew of my intentions she would think even less of me, if indeed she thought anything at all.

She then turned to the drawers. My hopes escalated as before, as she bent her body over them, opening the first drawer and then the second. My devastation was complete when, as before, she withdrew a shiny disc from the second drawer leaving the tan line unrevealed, unknown and still imaginary. She turned back to the counter and put the CD in the ZZ Top case.

I kept the CD because I had purchased it, but it began to remind me of what I really might be but for all my fine words and reading

have you been good?

Have you been very good?

Good enough that your Mums will let you out on a school night to catch our 48 Hour film screening?

We need all the support we can get to show those so-called professionals a thing or two.

The music can be uplifting or despondent, vocal or instrumental, acoustic or electronic, as long as it is loud.

It also has to fit the mood of the listener and the mood of the day. Three recent examples of perfect synchronicity stick out in my mind.

Around the start of last Summer, it was during the holidays from uni and I had just been paid. My friend Dave had borrowed a car for the day, so I went over to his, we grabbed a carton of Coopers and headed for the beach. The music was a Metallica tape, on the cheap car stereo. It was hot, we were smoking cigarettes and I was drinking while Dave drove. I yelled out to a couple of girls we saw when we were stopped at an intersection “Hey! We’re going to the beach, wanna come?” but they didn’t hear us. No matter. The trip took about half an hour and it put us in such a good mood, we sat on the grass, watched the cute girls rollerblade past, talked about art and drank until we’d finished the carton and the sun had set.

The third time is the easiest to recreate. It’s the latest of a long string of times I’ve been on my bike and had this gestalt feeling. It was just yesterday afternoon. I had resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t getting any work done that day, so I was riding into the city to take photos. I was going down Rathdowne street, which is a beautiful, tree-lined street that increases in width and traffic from the start near my house until it hits the CBD grid. The music on my iPod was Youth Group’s Casino Twilight Dogs, specifically Start Today Tomorrow. It was a cool day but the sun was shining and the song was oh so appropriate. I couldn’t help but grin. Again, I was put in a great mood and I got some shots I’m really pleased with.

As a predominantly white male, I wonder, does the appeal of having relations with racial minorities in New Zealand relate to a subconscious, colonialist desire to dominate? Or, when being dominated, is it related to a guilt complex over colonialist wrongs, a means of masochistic repentance?

Is my particular penchant for brown boys of the Maori persuasion related to my own approximately 2.7% share in that racial bloodline? Am I rooting around for my roots? Attempting to reconnect with my relations by engaging in relations? Is that too incestuous?

Does my 2.7% simply over-identify with racial minorities so much that I wish to become a part of them, to physically (re)integrate with them?

If I were living in Argentina, then, would the approximately 97.3% of me that is a mongrel-like mix of white racial descent motivate a drive to have relations with other white people, present in that country as a minority amongst a majority populace of a more caramel complexion?

If the theory is correct that the world was populated with humans during an epic, global trek of an increasingly multiplying, dispersing, diversifying core group which originated in Africa, does this mean that black people have, in actuality, been head of the family all along, and that almost no matter what, any relations had between people either within or without their own race is going to be an act of incest?

Would this render the notion of “one love” more or less meaningful?

Just how hard is the unavoidable to avoid?*

We were en route to Marton’s famed Corn Evil haunted maze and made that fateful turn. I don’t know if it was just me, but the sound of banjos played by pregnant teenagers with mullets could be heard faintly in the night as we drove down that dark and mysterious road. Doors were promptly locked.

It was clear that we were lost (ironic, seeing as we were on our way to a maze), but where and who could we ask for directions? Luckily, the bright lights of the Marton Motel caught our attention and we managed to get clear directions from the manager. Thank you Marton Motel!

“Who goes to Marton? Does it need a motel?” you might ask. Well, there were no vacancies that night so obviously people must stay there for some ungodly reason.

And so our adventure in Marton finished as quickly as it had started. We found the maze, we got the living daylights scared out of us, we went home. I’m glad the maze is providing something for the locals to do, whether they are actors in the maze or patrons such as ourselves. It keeps them off the streets and away from the cheap vodka and other unsavoury substances. Whether or not it will reduce the number of teen pregnancies is yet to be seen.

Maybe next time we’ll make a night out of it and book a few rooms at the Marton Motel and enjoy ourselves some unique and friendly Marton hospitality, hopefully sans the redneck butt sex.

The dinners. The barbecues. The random purchasing of gifts.

Dinner later that month, scheduled in a city far bigger than the one I’m used to, raised a smorgasbord of such questions.

What gesture would be appropriate for a group composed of myself and…
1) A close friend of real personal depth, exhibiting however classy but questionable taste in just about everything;
2) A friend of his that I had never met;
3) A girl friend with certain intellectual attractions; and
4) Her mildly uneasy husband?

The day had dawned bright and clear, but I wore this conundrum like a dark cloak. I wandered whimsically through Tauranga’s CBD, eyes darting from side to side (or at least the one I can see out of properly), seeking out a sign, a talisman, directing me to the solution to this grinding concern.

Dinner. Variegated company. Big city. Flash restaurant.

It was then that I saw it. An item so monstrous in style as to appear contrived but somehow innocent. An item so gaudy in its presentation as to potentially engage a group of such diverse interests as my potential guests in immediate, animated conversation. In short, the perfect gift for one that entertains all.