Expensive chicks for cheap kicks

I was arriving at The Party and saw there was a queue to get in. Never a big believer in waiting and more a believer in the now, I sauntered to the front, flashed a smile at the bouncer, Jack, whom I know from way back and he waved me in.

Then the male spoke up.

“How come girls always get to skip queues and never have to pay cover charge? It’s not fair. And then they get inside and we have to buy them all their drinks or their drinks are free off the bartenders. This is a total joke.”

Silly, silly, silly little male.

You want to know why girls don’t have to queue? You are standing there in your “going out jeans”, sneakers and a t-shirt. We are standing here in sky-high strappy stilettos and a sequined mini dress–freezing our asses off.

You want to know why girls don’t pay cover charge? Shall I work my way from the top down?
Hair: how many ten dollar barbers do you see around? Hundreds! - because most guys get pretty simple haircuts, there isn’t always that much hair to work with. Girls? We have to have involved architecturally sound works of art with shimmering colour tones, products, products and more rare diamond dust, pearl essence, moon oil products. And straightners? The only straightner a girl can use is $300. Haircut? $100-$150. Colour? $200-$250. Let’s face it, our hair probably cost more than your entire outfit.

Then the face? Makeup and mascara and lipgloss and perfume and facials and creams and lotions and potions and eternal youth stupefying mist because if we don’t look like the photo-shopped to oblivion whores in your dirrty girrly mags, we don’t qualify as the version of “hot” with which you are brain-washed into expecting by the conglomerates that control you.
The outfit? While it is completely socially acceptable for you to wear the same jeans out all the time, or the same sneakers and maybe rotate through a few shirts – However,we have to present an entirely new look with each outing. New earrings, new accessories, new clutch, new attire, new shoes.

So by the time a girl is ready to be social accepted out at The Party we are taking in excess of $800 to get there.

And you want to know why we don’t line up and don’t pay to be there?

You are paying to see us gentleman.

You, and your “going out jeans” from the last three weekends are paying for that pleasure.

Breasts, breasts, and the beast.

I was at The Party – a gala awards night for outstanding professional women. And boy, did I see a lot of breasts. There were those down-to-the-navel cowl neck numbers. There were side boobs, under the chin boobs, double boobs, severely separated boobs, severely squashed together boobs. One unfortunate choice of gown even gave one woman I saw back boobs.
There weren't many legs, just breasts. I wondered what it is that drives woman to send their juggernauts out into space like that. Is it the point of difference? Men have legs, but they sure as heck can't make it look like their head is bouncing on a bounty of bosom.
And while breasts truly are a wonderful female feature, they seem to somewhat lose their exclusivity when you realise that, with the right bra, they are also being doubled as a pouch for mobile phone and money.There is something ultimately more feminine about only softly educating our fans about our lady lumps through sheer fabric, or figure hugging ensembles, as opposed to introducing anyone and everyone face first to the girls. We are precious, valuable treasures ladies. No-one likes a present that is already unwrapped.

mouldy rye inside

It was birthday cake time at The Party.

A beautiful, tiered masterpiece created by his Wife. When I say 'created' I mean it in the sense that Caesar 'created' the Roman Empire - it is more an infliction of terror on surrounding subordinates to make things happen as the Emperor(ess) wishes. Regardless, her minions had done her proud.

His Wife wasn’t a silly Empress either. She knew why the Secretary was there.

“You know, I thought about it,” his Wife told me as she watched the monkey dance across the room. “I thought about getting my tits lifted up to my chin and my scalp all kind of tucked back underneath, look a bit more like her. But when it came down to it, it’s all really like cake.

“You can have the most divine cake – amazing texture, succulent taste, perfect and pleasing in every way. But once you ice it – that wonderful-on-the-inside cake becomes a heavenly treat to behold.

“So when I thought about it, the tit and scalp thing, I had to figure out whether it was maybe just the frosting I need to ice my cake and be delectable again.”

Her gaze drifted back to the monkey dance. Cloudiness over her brown eyes. A heavy swallow and a forced smile.

“These girls, with their tans and their bleached hair – they are already mighty fine cake and that icing is perfection. But would you bother icing old, stale, mouldy rye bread? It just seems like such a waste of icing. Iced or not iced. You aren’t going to turn mouldy rye into cake.

“I used to be cake. I used to be the creamiest, richest, most desirable chocolate mud cake. I didn’t even need icing. But now I know it’s going to take more than just icing to disguise the fact that I have become rye.”

It seemed awful. Do we all become rye? And would we always be second best to cake? And the what about the worth of icing? The worth of the illusion?

“Of course this is all hypothetical.” Strength returned to his Wife’s voice. The Empress was back from her reverie. “We have too many shared assets to worry about silly sweets.” She winked and went back to entertaining his guests.

A Tragedy

The tone had mellowed at The Party. The string quartet was still playing under the marquis, but the mellowing was something else. The Professor was rolling pipe smoke around his mouth. He breathed out through nostrils that flared. The combination of the plumes of smoke rushing from his nose as he exhaled and the deeply crinkled, leathery skin that folded around his eyes and jowls led to the obvious connotation of a wise old dragon.
The little ones were asking him questions in awe. "What is another word for laughing?" their words would tumble out across each other.
"Chuckling." More dragon plumes.
The older ones stepped in - trying to test the Professor to see if they could catch him out.
"What is another word for genius?"
"Prodigy."
"What is another word for tragedy?"
Alas! A pause...

The Professor leaned forward. The string quartet were in between songs. Silence thicker than the pipe's purple smoke descended. The folded leathery skin suddenly seemed less papery and more frightening.
"The truth is, no words for 'tragedy' more elaborate than "very sad" have ever worked."
The baldest of the older ones: "That is because no tragedy is the same."
"Aha! This is a false assumption. It is too erroneous to conclude from this that anything we call tragedy have nothing significant in common."
"And what on earth would they have in common?" the baldest continues, though not so baldly.
The Professor sunk back in his chair. "On earth..." The purple plumes rose into the afternoon sky as the string quartet started up again.
The baldest one shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his canapes - but we didn't miss what he had - did we?

A Pair of Red Shoes

I was walking to The Party when a homeless man called out to me.
"Nice shoes," he said.
It was startling.
And genuine.
His sandy blonde beard was nearly down to his shoulders.

A Vampire at The Party

There is a Vampire at The Party. She vamps by in her $3,800 shoes (how do I know how much? Because she told me. Four times.) and sashays in her designer only suits – “Daddy bought it for me”.
It must be said the Vampire’s taste in clothes and shoes is outstandingly fabulous and once I thought we could be friends. I tried several times to with my olive branch, but if you try to open it up with the Vampire it rolls like this:
“I’m having a terrible time. What is there to be happy about? Yeah, I got these $3,800 shoes but I didn’t want them. The ones I wanted weren’t in my size. It’s so depressing. I’m so depressed. I can’t eat anything I have to lose weight (from where?). Are you eating that? Do you know how many calories are in hummus? 102 per serve. That’ like a half hour run just to work off that hummus. I really want a boyfriend, but no-one pays me any attention at all. I’m not having fun. This caviar is too cold to be eaten properly.”

And so on and so forth until the Vampire has sucked all the life out of The Party. And it can happen with such ease and velocity: one minute you are quite enjoying yourself – the next you are struggling to find a reason to keep living. And then she will vamp off to suck the life out of some other unsuspecting victims at The Party.
But when the Suits arrive, the Big-Shots beside, the Vampire engages full sucking power, but this time, instead of sucking the life out, she is sucking up – an intense display of ego stroking, almost sickening to observe. Now the caviar is just right. Now there are so many interesting things happening in the news. Now the Vampire is excited and bright – it must be the energy stores she has sucked out of the rest of The Party.
We have more Manhattans.

The Enemy

I haven’t seen her in years. I haven’t thought about her in months. I hadn’t even thought about the whole saga in weeks. But there she was and here I was and we were walking into the same private function. Exclusive. Limited Numbers. Black Tie Only. Fine Dining and Wine Fine. Private Room. RSVPs ONLY. – All fantastic sounding caveats on a party (I mean, really what is the fun in going to anything if it doesn’t have a guest list? There is simply no sense of achievement or dignity otherwise) but when one finds oneself at The Party with all these caveats and the Enemy walks in – it only spells unavoidable trouble.

I know it’s terribly unladylike, but I do find that childish tantrum throwing is just so, well, satisfying. If only it were more socially acceptable to hurl your champagne glass against a wall, screech and charge at someone with your stiletto. But it’s all about poise these days isn’t it? In the adult world there are so many more rules! I remember being six and being angry at my sister for breaking my crayons, so I snapped the head off her doll. Perfect tantrum throwing. And we all moved on from that quite comfortably.

So when I saw her, the Enemy, at The Party. I did indeed consider bowling a few canapés at her head. But it was Black Tie Only. The quandary: how to throw a Black Tie Only Tantrum...
I started by switching from champagne to red – a well oaked cabernet sauvignon (the most likely contender for causing irremovable and irreparable staining upon spillage). Then I laid the all important ground work for exquisite revenge at The Party – I poured my heart out to the barmen. All five of them. Every detail was embellished and enriched and totally pitiful and by the conclusion of my horridly graphic anecdote demonstrating the true evilness of the Enemy, the barmen were riotous.

A riotous barman is essential to Black Tie Only Tantrums.

My other key secret weapons were:
1. I am great at telling stories to a group;
2. I have an unnecessarily loud voice; and
3. I knew one dirty little secret about her involving two boys, first year end of uni term drinks and the varsity swimming pool.

The Black Tie Only Tantrum proceeded as follows:

Commenced conversation with group at the appalling state of programmed televisions shows ‘these days’, deviated conversation to reflection on popular culture generally, zoomed conversation into celebrity antics particularly (all the while employing said unnecessarily loud voice and drawing many laughs from my audience). Then recounted the documented exploits of Britney Spear that I had recently read online. The exploits here – included two boys, end of year drinks, and a varsity swimming pool.

“And THEN,” I continued, sure the Enemy was within earshot, “She said, look boys, there’s no need to take turns, I’m sure I can accommodate –“
And perfectly, the Enemy spun around, bumping into me. I pulled the ole Italian footballer trick and exceedingly overreacted to the bump, spinning, and tipping my wine all over her and then stumbling into the arms of one of the audience.

The barmen arrived pronto.

“You have had too much to drink!” She tsked at her, and before anyone could say “What did Britney Spears say next” the Enemy was whisked from The Party.

It turns out adults can throw tantrums. You just have to be clever and strategic about the whole thing.

An old Flame

I see him there across the room and I see that he still wears that terrible jacket. I look away and smile too widely and laugh too loudly to no-one in particular and hope he notices me but wish he won’t. Heart pounds louder than the jazz and hot blood in my ears and my legs liquefy. And then I order another drink and the gentleman down the bar tips his hat at me and the waiter winks at me and I scrawl a thank-you on the back of an eftpos receipt and I walk away with a Manhattan.
I brush past someone else and I feel a look of heat after me as I swim through The Party.
I sashay and I flirt and I twirl and I dance and I play.
But he is still there across the room.I love that terrible jacket.

what is....?

A party is a gathering of persons who have been invited by a host for the purposes of socializing, conversation, and recreation. A party will typically feature eating and drinking, and often music and dancing as well.
Some parties are held in honor of a specific person, day, or event. Parties of this kind are often called celebrations.
A party is not necessarily a private occasion. Public parties are sometimes held in pubs and bars, and people attending such parties may be charged an admission fee by the host.
thanks wiki

Shut the Hell Up

I tried to tell the girl at The Party that it was a great skill and talent to shut the hell up.

She took offence before I could explain.

A sweet thing, with bad roots and overly-straightened (almost singed) hair, she wore a dress that maybe was nice in the nineties and was shooting off her mouth in a loud, proud and awfully abrasive way. She had an opinion on everything and if it happened to you, let her tell you, it happened to her better or worse or more extreme and why are you even talking about your latent life when hers is on show?

The point is, if you want to have a good time at The Party, it is important to do what you can to make sure those around you are having a good time and the objective, after all is said and done, is always simply to have a good time at The Party. Those around you do not want to be made to feel bad about themselves or intimidated or inferior. They want to feel important and interesting and liked. And often this is very simply achieved by shutting the hell up and listening.

And by listening, I do not mean merely refraining from speech (although for my ironed-out, peroxided friend that would be a fabulous start). To listen, really listen, to someone involves an active attention to what they are saying, what they mean, what they want to say and what they won’t say.

And if you can perfect this skill of shutting the hell up and stopping and taking the care and talent to listen life is very different at The Party from what you think... very different indeed.

Popular at The Party

The girl went to the party, but she knew she didn’t know anyone.
She went to the party even though she wasn’t really invited out of will or wish but she was there to fill numbers.
The girl showed me her invite and her name had been spelt incorrectly. She shrugged and said she didn’t mind, she was happy to be here, even if she ultimately knew it had nothing to do with anyone actually wanting her company.
She stood near the bar and swayed to the music.

A Simple Smile

I saw a man at The Party who smiled at the waitress across the bar and she came straight round to take an order from him.
He turned and smiled at the bartender who received the order. The bartender gave him a salute and sent the drink back pronto, perfectly stirred.
The waitress walked away smiling.
I watched the man as he worked the room, and observed how it didn't take long until the room started to work around him. People were approaching him, his orders were taken first and he was never without an admirer waiting in the wings. He wasn't classically handsome and, while well-groomed, wasn't opulently clothed. What was this invisible pull?
I approached him and extended my hand. He smiled as he shook it and I could feel myself smiling back at him, though I wasn't sure why.
I asked him why he was always smiling and he told me this:

I was an angry teenager. I had the entire CURE back catalogue and I was certain my parents were put on this earth to destroy me. I swore, I smoked, I stole, I drank, I lied. Generally, I was quite capable of rubbing people the wrong way. But if ever I found myself between a rock and a hard place, I knew that by some magic I could get out.

I never relied on this magic because I don’t deem magic to be terribly reliable, so every time I found myself in trouble I would go through the same motions of high anxiety and tension, and yet somehow find a way out.

It took years until I realised what this “magic” was - and it was a magic available to every global citizen should he choose to use it – it was charm.

Charm is different from beauty. Beauty is babied. It is treated preciously – a delicate display that is cradled, and handled with care. Charm is respected. Charm is an active force – not a passive recipient of adoration. Charm is a weapon used to bow down those who stand in your way.

Charm is all you need – that is when the magic happens. So I tried to break down this charm thing: what exactly is it that bestows the charm-wielder with control? It’s like having an operating manual of everyone you meet and I’m still trying to figure it out.

But the one ingredient I know that is certainly one of the most potent, the most fail-proof is the smile.

A genuine smile really gets you a long way towards whatever you want. A smile can mesmerise – like hypnosis, and that is the start of charm.

The FIVE Philosophy

An animated guest at The Party spilled her martini while in the throes of an exuberantly gestured tale on parking predicaments. The dirty, dry cocktail splashed onto some seriously suede sneakers of another guest who didn’t take too kindly to the imposition.
“Chill!” said our animated guest. “It will be gone in five minutes, like it never happened.”
It made me think – five minutes? There are a lot of things that are over and no big deal five minutes later: spilt milk, slipped eyeliner. Then there are the things that are over and no big deal five months later: a bad day at The Party, an unkind treatment by a fellow guest, missing out on your favourite canapé (or insert wish here). And then there are the things that are over and no big deal five years from now: you’re at a new Party, with new guests, swilling a new vintage of champagne and you can’t remember what it felt like not to feel this good at The Party.
It’s the five philosophy – if it will be over in five minutes, no need to stress or worry; if it will mean nothing in five months, give it no further thought because five months is not that long away; and if it will not be on your radar in five years, waste no further energy and look forward to how wonderful things will be at The Party in five years time.
Because in five years time you could be anywhere, and at That Party no-one holds your demons against you.
So walk away from your past - leave it all behind you - and walk forward to your five minutes, your five months and your five years from now..

Pretty Pink Pumps - aka "Detective Work at The Party"

In furtherance of my previous commentary on the (vaguely) endearing qualities of inebriated party peers, it must be mentioned that one of the more hilarious, albeit detrimental, elements to insobriety is the irrationality of intoxicated logic.

There was a moment at The Party when one of the party goers noticed her brand new, dynamic pink, handcrafted, $1,000+, platform peep toes had gone missing from where she had left them by the front door of the house at which The Party was happening.

It was a moment of panic. The ugly lights went on, Britney was silenced and startled guests were ordered by a militant Hostess to “find the pumps!” The pump-owner was, naturally, distraught, struggling to hold it together for the sake of keeping face and keeping her DiorShow intact. The ‘dynamic pink’ was an exceptionally rare release – had the peeps been stolen?

When the search of such clearly logical places for shoes to have been left – bedrooms, the dishwasher, the freezer, the dryer – produced no results, it was clear the shoes were not in the house at which The Party was happening. Party peers had rationalised looking in cereal boxes, the garbage, under the couch, in pot plants and through the broom closet and, astoundingly, to no avail.

The Hostess, in a huff, marched her fellow hostees out to scour the surrounding neighbourhood. They searched the park, wheelie-bins, parked cars and then – the neighbouring properties.
And THERE!

On the driveway of the neighbouring house! Strewn! Strewn, I tell you! With complete disregard for the exceptional rarity of a release of dynamic pink – were the peeps!

The flabbergasted Hostess drew the only logical conclusion available to an imbiber of more than several alcoholic beverages:

- The neighbours had stolen the shoes.

The Hostess marched up to the door of the dark, silent, and still neighbouring house and pounded on the door. Pounded and thumped and thwacked and walloped until a groggy, middle-aged (dare I add – terribly unkempt) man opened the door.

“You stole the peeps!” The Hostess accused, her hostees cowering behind her.

The unkempt man mumbled something along the lines of not knowing what she was raving about.

“One of OUR guests had HER $1,000+ dynamic pink pumps STOLEN from our HOUSE and they are in YOUR front driveway! Any IDEAS how they got THERE?”

As a witness, I must assure you, the Hostess was terrifying in her detective work.

The unkempt man proceeded to get a little rowdy with some throw away lines about not being particularly interested in dynamic pink pumps as they weren’t his colour.

Not his colour! Dynamic pink is everyone’s colour!

“So would you have stolen the shoes if they WEREN’T dynamic pink?” demanded the Hostess/interrogator. “What if they were BABY pink! Or BRIGHT pink or PURPLEY PINK!”

“Well, yes maybe purple pink,” the unkempt man responded.

“AHA! So you ARE interested in shoes then? So you DID steal the pumps from OUR PARTY!!!” the Hostess raged.

“No, I told you, pink is not my colour.”

It was clear it would take a lot more than a fuming Hostess to extract a confession from this midnight liar.

To support her Hostess, one of the fellow Hostees interjected:-

“Do you have a cat?”

More excellent, logical, inebriated detective work.

“No,” answered the unkempt man, puzzled. We were all a little puzzled.

Then from behind us we heard: - meeoooow and a silver Persian cat, with more hair than in Paris Hilton’s extension collection, sauntered past us to twirl around the unkempt man’s legs and nestle by his awfully olive slippers.

“THAT CAT!”

And that was it – this was better than a confession – he had lied about having a cat therefore he had LIED ABOUT THE PEEPS!!

“Don’t you think it POSSIBLE!” spat the revved-up Hostess, “That this CAT that you APPARENTLY don’t own could have FETCHED the shoes! YOU are still responsible for THAT! YOU can’t just have a CAT and then LIE about it and then lie about it AGAIN when your CAT fetches shoes from other people’s PARTIES!”

The puzzle solved, with a pirouette the pleased Hostess returned to The Party, the peeps recovered, and an excellent play of drunk logic to cringe over the next day.

post script

For those cat lovers out there - the Hostess has now been corrected and understands that it is dogs that fetch things, not domestic pets as a general category.

The unkempt man was the recipient of a large box of Roses the following day.

The Hostess had a two-day swelling and five day bruise on her door-knocking hand.

The Drink in Others

I was at the bar at the party, another bacardi, lime and soda please, and one of them came and stood beside me. The curiousness of drunk people is that they don’t know they are drunk. But as endearing as that may be, you cannot excuse their ignorance with innocence.
These are people who don’t know what they are doing, what they are saying, and sometimes even where they are- but sympathy for their situation is difficult to generate as their misfortune is a consequence of their own doing.

Cupcakes at The Party

Have you noticed the recent surge in popularity of cupcakes? Cupcakes are replacing cake as the ceremonial dessert of 21st and other birthday parties, weddings, office celebrations, and other outstanding parties.
My theory on cupcakes at The Party is that the omnipresent influence of Gen Y is permeating all parties everywhere.
As we all know, with Gen Y it is all About Me.
Egocentric, self-aware and confident -a cupcake is the perfect ceremonial dessert for Gen Y-ers. Why would we want a slice of the communal cake when we can have a a highly decorated and opulent CUPcake - a cake just for one - a cake all About Me.
The Cupcake answers all life musings of the grund norm Gen Y desire for self status which unravels the mystery of the vogue of cupcakes.
A Cupcake at The Party makes it all About Me.

Gen Y - The Saviours

We are the generation that are fighting hard to repair the environment and eco-systems your generation destroyed.
We are the generation that prove themselves not just by good grades at university - but by their social, cultural, and sporting involvment and acheivements.
We are the generation that are concerned with being fit and healthy and active, and the taxes we pay will support your clogged arteries draining the public health system - because you never looked after yourself we now have to.
We are the generation of responsibility. We are the generation that not only think outside the box - we live outside the box.
We are then generation that have to find solutions to the problems your generation created.

Don't call me Tall

How would you react if you were going about your life, minding your own business and a complete stranger butted in with "Wow! You're really fat has anyone ever told you that before?"
Or what about if you were having coffee with some friends and someone came up to you out of the blue with "Whoa, that is one huge nose you have there! It's like really HUGE!" or even "Jeez! Look at your freckles! You have so many freckles! That is like a seriously large amount of FRECKLES!"
It is quite plain that commenting to someone unrelated and unknown to you about their large ass, their huge honker or their overly spotted skin is completely inappropriate and downright rude. It is entirely unacceptable for complete strangers to comment on someone's physical appearance in such an intrusive and confronting manner.
And how would you react if these sorts of thrillingly un-insightful and unwelcome comments were thrown at you every time you ordered coffee, in the supermarket, at the bus stop, in the change room while buying clothes, in the line while buying popcorn for the movies, while out having drinks with friends, on the dance floor, on a date, in the office, in the elevator, at the bookstore - in a word EVERYWHERE everyday of your life?
How do you think you would start to feel about your large ass, your huge honker or your overly spotted skin? A bit self-conscious? Just a bit!
I am 6ft tall, darling. 185cm.
How do you think it makes me feel that every time I go anywhere the public feel it is permissible for them to interject with a dim-witted dialect on how tall I am.
I am aware I am tall.
I have been tall all my life.
I am not responsible for my tallness. This is how I was born.
It is a physical feature that I am not 100% comfortable with and don't appreciate being made to feel like a freak every time I grace the public with my presence.
I went to a concert and the girl standing behind me was bitching in a loud voice to her equally dull friend about the "big tall freak in front of us! People like that should be made to stand at the back".
I turned around and articulately reminded this short person - I was born tall. I have been tall all my life. I didn't just this afternoon decide to grow tall just to annoy her at a concert. My tallness is out of my control. Her bad attitude, bitterness and general waste of space are, however, totally within her control. And perhaps she should work on amending her bland personality instead of trying to change the colour of the sky.
It has reached the point where it is shaking my ability to make a party. Name me one pair of respectable Jimmy Choos, Peep Toes, Manolos or Louboutins that don't have a decent stiletto? It is as if I, as someone of some stature, cannot don a delectable plimsoll without having to hire a bodyguard to block the barrage of abuse and criticisms about my height.
A message to the public : Don't call me Tall. If you must speak, try first to research and rehearse something vaguely thought-provoking to impart to validate your presence at the party.
I am Tall. That is how I roll.

Run, baby, run

I do adore a fabulous party.
But the lengths one has to go to get into a good party these days are unbelievable.
Tomorrow I will be completing an entire triathlon, just to get to the party.

Ede Kane at The Party

There was a jukebox at this particular party.
A rental.
Her younger brothers, with their dyed-black, greasy hair scraped across their red, crusty eyes, kept cueing up a myriad of sounds trying to be songs which were all about how much the world hates them and parents are cruel and no-one understands them.
Darling, you wear bad, black eyemake-up, die your hair intermittently green and mushroom, grunt at passers-by and purchase your clothes from barely-functioning business professing to sell “psychobilly” garments.
I don’t understand you either.
I stood up tall in front of them.
No more. This is a party you self-involved ignoramus.
I cued The Kinks.
Because I party all day and all of the night and that is how I roll.