There I was changing into trousers in Central on a Sunday night. The clouds were visible from the intense light pollution. My beautiful polka dot boxers, which Josh—my mejor amigo, a Spanish aficionado, and the most Christian man I know—gave me last night as a parting gift, went on their public debut. It was the end of exam season, so the Class of ’22 decided to come out of their caves for a night that shall be remembered and regretted. The mission was eventually accomplished.
Josh and I entered Lan Kwai Fong[1] (alias LKF/Lanks)[2] with A, B, C, and D. They quickly realized that we were a social liability, and tried to distance themselves from us by powerwalking. Lucky for them, Josh, unlike me, didn’t get to change yet, so he had to run into one of those drug-dealing alleys to take his pants off,* providing ample time for their escape. Josh used me as a visual shield as he took his pants off, giving off a not-so-inconspicuous scent of homosexual engagement as he showed off his matching polka boxers. The ridiculousness of our situation was thrilling, but I was disappointed by how little a ripple we, even in our quixotism, made in Lan Kwai Fong. It was the prologue of what I was to understand throughout this night, that it was here, amongst drunkards and retards, that I, even as sober, truly belonged, and that Lanks, in its futility, anxiety, and entropy, was the acme of diversity, inclusivity, and equity.
*For the readers wondering about the whole trousers issue, E,[3] Josh’s friend, told him that we should wear shorts because it’ll be too hot in the club. It was, needless to say, an unfortunate Marie Antoinette “Let Them Eat Cake” kind of move from someone who doesn’t understand the plight of the amateur clubber. It turns out that Josh and I didn’t have enough clout to wear shorts. In fact, we’re so low in the clubbing hierarchy that it would’ve been the last straw that pushes us down to the social-outcast category with the pedos and the rabidly drunk. We’d normally welcome this—since it’s interesting to be outcasted—if not for the fact that the clubs won’t allow us in, and we’d lose too much fun.
[1] Advertised on their website as “Hong Kong’s Premier Lifestyle Destination.” Make of that what you will.
[2] LKF is the masculine alias, Lanks, the feminine.
[3] A genuinely nice person who has a table permanently reserved for her in one of the more busy clubs, allegedly makes out with her female friend when they’re drunk, and practically splits her time between her apartment on the Peak and LKF.
Warren's Brain Dumps 