eek! another party

Housemate Mirjam has announced another party. I swear she only does it to make me clean up. I haven’t yet, but we did at least have a garage sale today and got rid of a satisfactory amount of, um, stuff. But the party. It’s on Saturday a week from today and she’s given it a theme which is, wait for it – bad taste. I think this is not in very good taste, myself, but I could be missing the point. I’m figuring this theme will at least have the advantage of encouraging the loosening of inhibitions (along with the punch, of course). I expect we’ll organise prizes then get too trashed to give them out; it is bad taste, after all. I haven’t been to a bad taste party since I was a teenager. At that party I wore a boy’s school uniform complete with cap, and pigtails, and someone brought a trifle that looked like a green jelly swamp, with a little gumby doll drowning in it. We ate it, except for the gumby doll, which was plastic. The trifle was delicious, so the bad taste bit was purely aesthetic.

In terms of interpretation of the dress code, I think the advice would all trend the same way: go to town, go the whole hat, get your sartorial sinner on. I think we will have some of the more vulgar cocktails available, including mai tais (so refreshing in autumn), and we’re looking for a Twister mat. I might also do some of those little cocktail frankfurts on sticks, and, ooh yes, those teensy red and green onions with cubes of cheddar. Feel free to bring your poison of choice and let us know in advance if you need somewhere to crash. There may be assorted unpredictable occurrences; there usually are.

Any questions, call, txt or email me.

trumping even bush

Donald Trump, real estate developer and TV showman, tells a crowd of supporters in a Las Vegas casino how he would run the country if he were president.

Discussing trade, he said he would tell China’s leaders, “Listen you motherf——, we’re going to tax you 25 percent.”

“If I run and if I win,” he told the crowd, “we will have a rich country again.”

Americans fall for this shit in great numbers. Sit back, folks, and grab the popcorn - the circus has begun.

through looking-glass with tea party, says redfern hostess

NEWS FROM PEMBROKE/TINY RHINOS

including an imminent party to which you are very probably invited – read on…

It may have been the last thing on my mind, back a couple of months ago, but the terrace was much in need of a gardener (as Mirjam could tell you). And then I went for a holiday by a quiet beach in Hipparkia (the) Kombi, and bumped into one. Organising a music event, he was. Hard and nut-brown in nothing but a pair of cargo shorts. Jawbone you could cut your tongue on, silver-dark hair. Used to be a surfie. Likes a smoke.

What’s a girl to do?

Been spending a lot of time talking, laughing, cooking, walking, swimming, much of it unclad. Idyllic, wot? That quiet beach (the locals told me not to tell anyone about it) is becoming quite a distraction.

But you should see my terrace. Nut-brown gardener and I have been doing some night gardening (since work still keeps me to vampire hours), and by some arcane magic there is more space, more greenery, more flowers and features, more fairy lights and, blow me down, a very sweet fountain. We must, I said weeks ago, have a party.

Yes I did, and so we set the date of the party, Mirjam and I and the green magic man Al, but we left the details loose, and my vampire hours confused me in my intention to have at least some of the party in the garden in daylight although I’m only up in the morning and in any case the rain seems to have set in.

*sigh*

I’d put the whole thing off, I’m so disorganised and the long-range forecast is shite, but Mirjam, very reasonably since it’s only a week away, has already invited people. Oh, and we did kind of agree it would have some kind of Mad Hatter’s Tea Party theme, so she told them that too. Which means a party of that persuasion is happening in my house a week from tonight and I’d better get my head – and my friends’ heads – around it.

SO HERE’S WHAT I FIGURE

The party will go from 9pm till around the middle of the next day. These are my normal waking hours, so I can look after late-night trashbags of all sorts and see things through smoothly. There’ll be several stages.

The evening will be themed most strongly – this means, according to our house rules, that if you turn up before midnight you must be dressed to theme or consent to be dressed by the house. After midnight this service is optional.

The theme

Through Looking-Glass with Tea Party

(I know, I’ve been reading too many headlines lately)

9pm

I wish to reclaim the tea party from those evil, right-wing Americans, partly by adding various superior intoxicants. There will, for example, be punch. Schnapps. Assorted teas of course, good coffee, finger food. Lewis Carroll’s two Alice books as a dress theme should further add, what can I say, a scholarly respectability. Think rabbits, kittens, cards, chess pieces, top hats and perverse Victoriana. Walrus, Carpenter, Wasp in a Wig. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Jabberwocky, if you dare. Bandersnatch.

4am

Parties usually simmer down to the hardcore somewhere around 4. We’ll have braziers on the terrace, so smokers and talkers will be cosy, and inside there are plenty of soft places and spare blankets for any who want to crash here rather than on the road. There will also, according to theme, be cards and a chessboard.

7am

For those other night creatures arriving from work after 7am, we have the Grand Weekend Legless Breakfast – beer, wine, cocktails if there’s any left. Weather permitting, this will centre on the terrace (free vitamin D with every drink), and roll right on into…

10ish am

A late-morning bacon-egg-and-vego feast. Daytime folks who did or didn’t come the night before are also welcome to the big brunch…

And… simultaneously we will have, for those still in Wonderland or wishing they were, Afternoon Tea in the Morning – assorted teas, espresso coffee, bread and butter, fruit – cake, if you’re lucky. Mix and match. Put your top hat on.

It’ll only get messy if it rains and we all have to crowd onto one big table.

All contributions to table and bar welcome.

If you want to play a set or share an idea, get in touch.

If you want to be there and haven’t been smsed or emailed, get in touch.

Otherwise, see you through the mirror.

Costume ideas

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice%27s_Adventures_in_Wonderland

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Through_the_Looking-Glass

openly feminist art, you might say – and by a man

Artist Jamie McCartney of Brighton Body Casting has created a remarkable sculpture work called The Great Wall of Vagina. My fine London friend James directed my attention to it. Don’t know about you but I found it fascinating, epic and moving. The pure white of the plaster makes it surprisingly unconfronting (you’d really have to be misogynist – or at least gynophobic – to dislike it) – and yet it’s still immensely powerful.

Bravo Jamie McCartney. You gotta respect a man who drives a custom pink East German Trabant.

and one for sorrow

A catastrophic domestic tragedy unfolds in Melbourne. Comment is vain in time of such grief. What will happen to this boy? How will he heal? How can we heal?

assange for australian of the year

“You have to start with the truth. The truth is the only way that we can get anywhere. Because any decision-making that is based upon lies or ignorance can’t lead to a good conclusion.”                                                                                      – Julian Assange

Russia wants him nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize; it may be an idle political sally but we should definitely start with Australian of the Year. Click on the link, then fill fields and select buttons as the choices dictate until you get to the big window for ‘tell us about your nominee’. By the way, Assange’s home if not his residence is Parkville, Victoria, and towards the end of the form you will need to nominate a referee.

Here’s what I put for the case. Copy, adapt, extract as you please. Or write your own.

Aside from his formidable technical skills, Julian Assange has shown unparalleled courage in the face of some of the most powerful, arrogant, and merciless opponents in the world. His determination and capacity to enforce government transparency is nothing short of revolutionary, and as a revolutionary he will be hated and hunted by those powers he challenges – even though, or perhaps because – the principles he is enforcing on them are their own.

Justice, democracy, integrity, open-handed diplomacy: the marks of civilisation have become meaningless logos on the sides of global juggernauts. More than anyone has been able so far, Julian Assange has shown the world how the Internet can intervene in the hypocrisies of power, and since this intervention is a necessary step on the way to true justice and even ultimate human happiness – indeed, to much of a future for the human race at all – he should be lauded as a hero.

Moreover, the man is an icon already. In many ways this twenty-first-century larrikin, so dry he’s astringent, could only have come out of Australia. The Sydney Morning Herald called him “the Ned Kelly of the digital age”, Amnesty and others have given him awards, Russia suggests the Nobel Peace Prize, but Assange remains razor-sharp, dead-cool, totally fair and exquisitely modest. Julian Assange is a true Australian hero – he does us proud, he makes us proud, and he deserves to be Australian of the Year. Furthermore, he is increasingly and urgently in need of our support.

an open letter to julia gillard re julian assange

On abc.net.au by Jeff Sparrow and Elizabeth O’Shea. Comments were disabled when I visited, but I urge you to read it and comment here. Thanks to Bluehigh for the link.

And then here is the avaaz petition.

a wild party and a hung parliament

Whew; what a night. Intense, spectacular, moving, hilarious, inspiring. A chance to enjoy our friends, and what fine folk they are indeed – and how they revelled in the costume challenge of genderfuck. Winners were voted  in various categories of sartorial achievement: finest subtle transfomation (Max), finest, ahem, sock (oh names names; some gorgeous young friend of a friend), most dramatic straight male transformation (ooh Kenny!), girl we were all hot for as a man (after much discussion and talk of a dance-off, Deborah), and most glorious queen (Mimo, in my mermaid wig; no contest in the absence of Mr d’Silva, since Mimo’s friend came as a flat-chested lesbian, aka himself).

The 70s punch bowl was filled with Mirjam’s infamous rum/orange/champagne/ice cream punch, the fairy lights were twinkling, Pablo was mixing tunes from Mirjam’s iPod, and all manner of magical encounters were occurring. It was a fitting celebration for the return of Mirjam to Pembroke/tiny rhinos.

Tsk. I should’ve got Mimo to do the prize awards with me. Next time. We’ve promised another party if there’s another election, and I’ve a birthday coming up anyway.

Twitter Updates

The Gruen Team

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gruenhq In case you missed it: @oldspice Hello Australia. Look at your Parliament, now back at me. Sadly, it isn’t me, but it is hung like me.

no more sharehouse blues

Hallelujah and hurrah! After nine-and-a-half months, the Constant Minor Irritant is gone: I feel like singing one of those jolly little medieval songs of rejoicing, but the only one I can think of is God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen – which is just too ridiculous. Maybe I’ll play Nirvana instead, because I’m still angry.

Calm; be calm. For my own sake, this therapeutic kiss-off to an exceedingly tiresome subtenant should at least attempt to be fair. Soon enough my resentment will fade; I’ll have the lovely Mirjam back in my house, and I’ll no longer hang out at friends’ places when I should be doing stuff at home. I won’t arrive home hoping he isn’t there, sighing over the latest ‘fuck-you’ detail, wondering how to broach the most pressing issue without provoking hostility.

Believe me, I can’t and wouldn’t claim to be a perfect flatmate by any means: I hate housework and can be eccentric and inconsiderate, but I’m honest and direct and reasonable – in other words, I can be negotiated with. That was always a problem with the Constant Minor Irritant. His sins ranged from serious (skipping a fortnightly rent payment and never mentioning it) to stupidly trivial (inviting his friends into my bohemian paradise and accepting their admiration as if he’d created it himself) – but the real problem was that they (his sins, that is) were goddamnit unceasing. Most of it was minor stuff, but minor stuff is quite difficult to deal with when it never seems to stop, because the victim comes to sound like they’re nagging: please don’t do this, don’t do that, be careful to such and such, could you just make sure you etc… And whether or not you nag, you still get to feeling rather misused, because the ongoing indifference to your feelings and standards signifies an attitude of profound disrespect.

The slightest exasperation on my part would provoke resentment, argument and sulking, but politeness achieved only the smallest possible improvement – just enough so I couldn’t say he hadn’t done what I asked, not enough to really solve the problem. He was a master of the meaningless apology (“you know what I’m like”), and of conversational dynamics that smoothed over his little untruths and prevented meaningful confrontation. He was, in short, weak, manipulative, dishonest, arrogant, unco-operative, uncommunicative and sometimes downright rude. I also think he hated conceding to a woman. Loser.

I have to admit the first month or two were pretty good. He was extremely charming, pretty clean and tidy and at least superficially co-operative. There was so much potential for a good relationship: we were both musicians, both stoners, both people with a dark sense of humour who like to sit around all night drinking wine and talking about life. We flirted: I was attracted to him and he actively encouraged me to think this could turn into a very cosy arrangement. I sensed he was troubled in himself in certain ways and felt I could help, and that it would be fun and good for us both. Then slowly, as it came to the point of action, he backed off, and left me dangling – socially and emotionally compromised. He never explained or justified his earlier encouragement, only saying he didn’t think it was a good idea to get involved. I just wish he’d given me a simple ‘no’ – at the outset when I first raised the subject, not after two months of come-on.

Unfortunately, that business amounted to a gross breach of trust from which we never recovered. Indignation made me leave the rebuilding to him, and he never bothered; I think he had no clue how to. Common sense failed to tell him that conforming to the requirements of his subtenancy and showing basic good faith and friendship would’ve been a great start. Instead he developed into one of those things you just don’t want in the house, bad-mannered as a teen, slippery as an eel, slimy as snot, dodgy as fuck. To put it like that shows hatred on my part, which is only one aspect of my response to him, but he earned it.

Here is a list of all the things I don’t have to put up with any more. This really isn’t for you – it’s probably boring as hell to read and kind of sordid. But I need to lay it out as a lesson to myself, because the CMI is very charming and entirely used to being forgiven without expectation of improvement. I also need to do it for… what’s the word I use in the blog intro? Emesis.

Using things that belong to me that he was asked (repeatedly) not to use, ranging from my teacup to my keys to my towel (ew!) to my computer (on which he took to downloading porn in my bedroom while I was out)
Irregular rent payment (terms are by direct debit but he never set it up)
Rubbish left wherever he put it down (it took weeks of strenuous objection to get this problem from disgusting down to just mildly annoying)
Stinky butt-filled ashtrays on every table, rarely emptied, never washed
Spills never cleaned up
Empty packets left in kitchen cupboards
Kitchen supplies not replaced and not put on the fridge-door shopping list, or else replaced with a smaller or inferior version
Jars, bottles, etc consumed fast then left for weeks with a half-serve or two in them (this was his response when I objected to the above with a sentence starting “If you finish it…”)
Washing up (which I admit he was quick to do) done so badly that I regularly returned a third of it to the sink (leaving us with differing ideas of how much cleaning he did, because after a while I couldn’t stand to keep mentioning it)
Ice cube trays emptied and left on the bench
Communal things not put back in their place after use
Vegies regularly left to rot in the fridge
Lights left on all night
Toilet rolls begun and left off the holder, empty rolls left on the floor
Gross smears on the bathroom mirror
Shoes left around the lounge and passageways
Chronic failure to empty the dryer filter and the vacuum cleaner receptacle (the dryer survived; I’m not sure about the vac)
Linen borrowed so his friends could sleep over, then left for me to wash
House keys blithely handed out to girls he’d picked up but hardly knew
And last but not least, something I really detest: fakeness. For example, if he thought I might be angry with him he’d greet me with “Hi!” in a voice like a TV presenter – and he never once asked me straight if there was a problem

As you can see, it ranges from the merely tedious to the truly alarming. All of his offences waxed and waned depending on his mood or situation and how much pressure I exerted. A few of these things I’d occasionally be guilty of myself, and no doubt he could write his own list of the things I do that annoyed him. But it was the lousy, unco-operative attitude that did for him in the end – he just didn’t seem to get the power differential: I’m the leaseholder, and the creator of an environment generally considered highly desirable: I set the standards here; if you don’t respect that, you can’t stay. Apparently for him my unwillingness to let him behave however he pleased (and presumably to clean up after him) was grounds for resentment and something he did his best to ignore. After three or four months, I wrote it all out for him so he couldn’t fail to understand, and suggested he get a friend to help him consider the charges and frame any objections or counter-arguments. He never responded, though his behaviour improved marginally for a few weeks. I gave him a second chance, then a third and fourth and so on until I lost count – partly because of the early potential, partly because replacing a subtenant is always a new field of risk, and in the end I put up with him for longer than I wanted to because I had to wait for him to pay at least some of the money he owed me (he’d never paid a bond, having moved in while I was overseas and then kept quiet about it).

It’s been two days since he handed in his key, and already my mood is lifting. He wants to stay on the party invite list – that’s the only leverage I have for the last of the monies owed. I wonder, will he use his pride for good, and pay up without argument, or will he use it for evil, to sanction his weakness and avoid me forever. Either way, I figure, I win – at last.

coffee men

‘How d’you take your coffee, luv?’ asked a friend.

‘White with one.’ I paused… and observed with interest: ‘nothing like I take my men.’

‘Darlin’,’ drawled my rugged friend without missing a beat, ‘if you took your coffee like you take your men you’d end up burned.’