Spring is here

I had one of those days today where I woke up and the world was full of potential.
It was full of serendipitous sunshine and the Party was everywhere.
It was in my favourite musky-smelling pillow. It was in my clanky old keyboard with the letters worn off the keys. I was allured and searched for the Party further. It was in my rose, geranium and olive oil soap from the four toothed lady at the markets. It was in the wine glasses from last night with shiraz sediment in the bottom. I turned – and lo! There was the Party hiding in my closet, beside the tangerine indulgence cocktail dress and the aquamarine one-day acceptance speech number. The Party was in the red lipstick I had forgotten I had. The Party winked at me from behind my camera. The Party twirled me and pointed my toward one of its many favourite hiding places in amongst my cds.
Then the Party give me a kiss and a squeeze and took my hand and said “Welcome to September – Spring is here.”

Humanity

Brewing inside my soul, I feel it.
I crave it.
We need it.
Revolution.
We need to stop this avalanche of consumerism before it obliterates everything anyone ever stood for.
A Chinese sweat shop cannot make us a new Pacific Ocean.
An Indian call centre cannot tell us how to love each other.
And no amount of Coca-Cola or MacDonalds can feed the starving African heart.
In Australia this year, there was a coup. Our streets were silent. People flicked the station and watched some more goddamned masterchefTM.
In America this year, a private company dug a dirty hole and gave a fast spreading cancer to the people’s southern east coast. People waved their hands a little bit and went back to their too-mortgaged homes.
In Iraq and in Afghanistan our husbands and brothers and fathers and lovers fight a war that has no strategy, let alone any exit strategy.
For ‘Nam – people bled their hearts on the streets. They shook off their forsaken jackets and the silk business noose around their necks and they bled their passion and power and pain on to the streets and they made the change happen.
And now?
We can’t muster the care to buy The Big Issue from the cheery homeless man on the street.
In this, you and I are equal. You and Obama are equal. Steve Jobs and I are equal. Joe down the street and Robert Mugabe are equal. Korean and Chilean are equal. Australian and English are equal. Irish and Spanish – all equal
We are all equally to blame.
What will it take for us to understand this disposable life we lead will not sustain us?
What will it take for us to realize we are poisoning ourselves?
Will it be the last moment when there is nothing left, an infected abdomen and an empty head? Dust, and useless litter and disintegrating possessions?
Or can we muster the courage and the strength to do something before then?
In the late 1800s they had Romanticism – an enamor with the Surreal and a resistance to industrialism. In the 1960s they had their hippies and free love and a resistance to the war and oppression of civil rights. And now. In the year 2010 – we need it again. We need a commitment to community and a resistance to the destruction and the disposability of our way of life. We need to take up our arms and heed the call to Revolution one more time.
This Revolution is about Humanity.
Without our humanity we will not make it through this cruel winter we have brought upon ourselves.
Without our humanity our brothers and sisters will starve. They will kill each other and we will rip out and torch the soul of the earth that raised us.
No more disposable fashion and music and art. No more replaceable wars and politicians and corporations.
Bring back our Humanity.
We need this Revolution.

At a jazz club

Electro jazz played too loudly to talk about anything that needed soft voices. So with no soft voices, lovers were silent. Too much can happen in this silence of bass and keys and dirty saxophone alto. An intoxicating sensation of presence envelopes the room of people who are here to be seen. It was not too early, not too late. There was too much red and wet wine lists.

She felt the fire and ice rip through her in the way that made her laugh too loud and her gestures too animated. He was there. Across the way.
The lighting wasn’t dim enough here.

And he knew.

He knew about the way she showered every night religiously before bed. He knew about the dark mole she had on her left butt cheek. He knew she liked her eggs poached. He knew about the soft down between her breasts and he knew she arched her back. He knew her aunts and uncles by name. He knew her scent and taste when she hadn’t showered.

For happy hour they were perfect strangers. Flawless at it. Each with new prizes the other had never seen.

She noticed he didn’t laugh too loudly or gesture gregariously. He moved her soft hair away from her neck to whisper something in her ear.

She flinched. A little. The pain wasn’t so much a slap but a growing gnawing.

She was silent.

How impressionable are kids?

From the age of five until I was eight, I seriously believed that Creedance Clearwater Revival’s Down on the Street was the Australian National Anthem. I also used to think Captain Planet was based on true stories and that one day I would meet Nancy Drew.
Parents, I think often take advantage of how impressionable kids are. My parents had me convinced that a toasted cheese sandwich was a very special treat only available when I had demonstrated some extraordinary act of pleasing child behaviour. (Meanwhile back at the ranch, I learnt all too well as a struggling, time poor, finance poor student exactly what this toasted cheese sandwich business was about.)
I also used to think that catch’n’kiss was a dangerous way to catch a deadly disease and that the boogieman (who was also, conveniently for my parents, our neighbour) would really come and get me if I didn’t eat my broccoli.
All this came flooding back to me when I read an article that girls as young as 6 years old are putting themselves on calories controlled diets in a bid to “get skinny”. How impressionable are kids. I was 6 years old twenty years ago, and there was no way I knew what a calories was, nor cared enough to control my consumption of them. I feel like I sound like that bitter man who sits outside the butcher at my local shopping centre, but really – are kids these days growing up too fast?
Or is it not growing up at all, but just a response to environmental stimuli. We are part of that stimuli people, we owe the kids.
And bring back Captain Planet.

Hey Fat B!tch :)

Goddamn Atkins, low-carb, low-fat, portion distortion, blood type, skin type, nationality type – for heaven’s sake how many diets are there?
Fact:
1. We are all fat b!tches who work in office and barely have time to remember who our friends and family are, let alone go to the gym.
2. We are always ready, willing and able to consume our body weight in chocolate.
3. Who gives a f*ck about an Oxford Comma?

The point is – who the hell can count calories, remember what is low-carb, hi-GI, mono-unsaturated, insoluble, protein rich with Vitamin A and selium? It would be a full time job just eating healthily! And I have far more numerous and riveting things to occupy my thoughts than how many riboflavins I’m getting in a day.
Here are the three easiest diets you will ever hear of:

1. Weight loss
Things you can eat: the colour green and anything protein.
Things you can’t eat: anything white.
Two rules. That’s it. No fancy-shmansy whiz bang low fat pretend carbs, taste like cardboard. If it is the colour green (apples, zucchini, spinach) or protein (steak, eggs, chicken) eat it.
If it is the colour white (bread, cake, biscuits, rice) don’t eat it.
Continue until desired weight loss is achieved.

2. Flat stomach
The rules of this diet are very easy – no solids after 10am.
That’s it. Eat what you like, drink what you like, but NO solids after 10am.

3. Detox
Eat foods that are only one food.
Steak is made of steak. A banana is made of banana. A carrot is made of carrot. A cracker is made of rice, potato, vegetable oil, sugar, salt, vegetable powders, flavour enhancers, dextrose, food acids, yadda yadda.
It is possible to combine your one foods as long as they stay one food. For example, a salad is lettuce, tomato, cucumber on the same plate. A stir-fry is capsicum, broccoli, chicken on the same plate. A cake may be made of banana, sugar, milk, eggs and wheat – but the banana is no longer a banana and the milk is no longer milk.
Promise you will feel the world of difference after just three days.

So throw the calorie counter away, screw the pre-packaged meals (they are miserable). Eating should be easy and fun, not taxing and stressful.

So go green and protein, liquids or one food. Easy to remember, easy to follow.

Love Ede xx

It's all in a bathroom

I can forgive almost anything about a club if it has an amazing ladies’ loos. Seriously I have been served shit martinis been leered at by some no-friends jackass someone decided to let in and been trodden on by kmart couture heels, but stepping into beautiful bathrooms redeems all evils.
What makes a good bathroom? It’s quite simple really and club owners world wide would by doing themselves a service to heed this simple recipe:
1. Mirrors
2. Cubicles
3. Couches
Mirrors – when I say mirrors I don’t mean those dark reflective squares you picked up for a bargain at ikea. I need all angles people! I need at least one full length, preferably a series of full lengths so I can check my back and side angles as well. I need a mirror with sufficient lighting to apply and check make-up without emerging from the bathrooms looking like I’m auditioning for Cabaret. And I need plenty of them! Do you want your club full of girls or not?
Cubicles – you would think this one would be a no brainer. But the number of mens’ toilets I have been in over my years when I have given up on the unmoving queue to the ladies – there are the same number of cubicles in the mens as there are in the ladies? WTF? Guys need a slash station and maybe one or two cubicles. Girls need thirty – forty. I’m serious.
Couches – the ladies’ loos are like our sanctuary. Why do you think girls always go to the bathroom in a pack? It’s because it provides us with an opportunity to do what we do best – dissect and analyse the events around us. And for important activity, we would really appreciate at least two couches.
Trust me, mirrors, cubicles, and couches and your club will be a raging success.

I find cover charge offensive

That is all I have to say.

The Pretend Party

For those who have been following this blog, it will be clear the one place I love to be more than anything in the world is The Party.

I love the glamour, the people, the interaction, the reaction, the conversation, the cocktails, the photos, the impulses, the spontaneity.

But a new phenomenon is emerging and I am grappling to accept its impact.

Not to diss on social networks – I mean what kind of earthling would I be if I did? – but facebook invites are throwing the whole point of The Party out of kilter.

I would be invited to between ten and twenty events on facebook  by people I haven’t seen/spoken to/thought of in years.  To be fair, yes, why am I still friends with them then?  But remember when it was cool on facebook to have as many friends as you could find? Have you ever tried to cull those hundreds of people in later years? Very time consuming.  And boring.

Still, some of these events are to their houses people!  To catch up with their housemates I have never heard of! And yet, there is some part of me that wants to say “Yes, Attending”. Even though chances are I will never go.  But for some odd reason it feels good to be invited to an event you have no intention of going to?

There needs to be some kind of new ettiquitte.   A protocol for facebook invite.  Only invite those you definitely want to come – and if they did come you would go and talk to them and thank them for coming.  And attendees.  “Maybe” needs to be removed.  “Maybe” means you are pretty cool and I don’t want to offend you by saying no but there is really no way I will be attending.  And “attending” needs to be some kind of solid commitment to turning up.  Otherwise we are really losing the whole focus of The Party.

A short note on dress codes

I would like to point out to all those dress code militants on doors of clubs and bars these days that a collared shirt is not a comprehensive vetting procedure for douchebags.

Sure, you don’t want to see the wife-beater some guy wore to work and the mis-matched thongs he found in the backseat strutting around a club that an proprietor has put a lot of time and money into, but really jeans and a tshirt not allowed?

As a lady who truly does love and appreciate The Party, I understand you want well-dressed people in your club, it adds to the sense of occasion. But there really needs to be some other criteria outside imposing practically a penguin suit on our lads.

I would propose the other criteria goes along the lines of this: “Are you wearing a collared shirt, Sir? – No, okay then. Well are you a complete douchebag? No? Come right on through, Sir.”

And if the response to the later criteria is anything along the lines of “(expletive) you!” or “Get a cop up ya!” or “Don’t you know who I am? I’m a law-yer!” then clearly the potential patron is not suited for the venue.

Because as a girl who spends a lot on shoes and likes to wear high high heels, I would much prefer Mr Jeans and Tshirt who wants to buy me a nice drink to Mr Collared Shirt and Ridiculously Pointy Crocodile Skin Shoes who wants to grab my ass.

So bar, club and pub proprietor, please listen when I saw – a collared shirt will not keep the douchebags out of your club.

The last sporting intellectual pursuit..?

The last true sporting intellectual pursuits in the world are 1) chess and 2) The Races.

Who knew how important a spell could be? The difference between a stallion and a donkey on my booking card!

So much more to The Races than my previous brush of ‘prettiest jockey jumper’ (don’t hate on me – I was young).

Now the stakes are higher with a demand for discerning judgment calls on trainers, past performances, the weather, the starting stall, the word on the street…

And more than the gambling (don’t worry I am a “dollar each way” kinda girl. I am not advocating gambling with more than your money) there is the fashion, the energy, the attraction, the sparkling conversation—and the sparkling wine….

Sun is shining and there is a genuine respect for the occasion.  Yes we will wear our most delightful fascinators and custom-made hats. Yes men will wear jackets. Yes we are there to see horses.

Because The Races is more than a bar in the day: this a day that pulsates with the anticipation of the hard work, blood, sweat and tears of these horses and their entire entourage of cast and crew. Dapper gentlemen and stunning ladies, and all the genuinely good-natured fun that is conjured by the special magic on the field.

And  will wear our finest out to The Party at The Races.  

Eye-sex

In all fairness, the only way to impartially preface this narrative is to shamefully highlight that I was indeed, as it were, dancing on a steel, utility-type table at a backpacker’s bar at the time.

I believe this to be irrelevant: utility table or no, ridiculously hot European backpackers or no – Eye-sex really is a common assault in all realms of The Party.

You know the Eye-sex phenomenon I’m talking about, right? There you are, crumping, gettin’ down, minding your own business in your short shorts and then you accidently lock eyes with a random stranger.

I use the verb ‘lock’ in this instance as it really is a sudden trap in time.  You have been ‘locked’ because Mr/Ms Random Stranger already had you firmly in their sights. And then BAM – before you know it: Eye-sex.

There is the whole primal event in this oracular spectacular – seriously fast undressing, flimsy and brief attempt at vague foreplay, hard-hitting grinding and a champagne supernova. 

You break the eye impact and feel dizzy with the speed of the assailant!

But now you are in irrefutably critical danger.  For Eye-sex once – shame on you.  Eye-sex twice – you better hide in the bathroom, girlfriend!

Comed-weeeeeeeeeee!

Attended The Party at the Brisbane Comedy Festival. After having been at the box for the last few years' Melbourne Comedy Festival televised event, it has occurred to me that the greater the fame and popularity of a comedian the greater, and more direct, inverse relationship there is with any unique or original comedic value.  I mean really, no-one wants to see another lame staged tiff between Lano and Woodley, or grit their teeth through Hughesy the Hack.
But The Party at the powerhouse showed originality, wit, eagle eyes for details and an eloquent, articulate and downright hilarious delivery of the world around us.
It was the perfect pick me up after this party princess had been feeling low following a particularly dodgy meal in Chinatown (never again will I tempt fate by ordering "the fowl"). I eased my tumbling tummy with a bottle of house red - after all a recent study has shown drinking red wine to be slimming! apparently the calories in alcohol are processed by our bodies differently to those calories in food thus leaving our alcohol calories almost negated!
Who would have thunk it! And all this time I just assumed it was all that sexually charged dancing I did after a bottle of red wine!
I have decided to get off the carousel and join the crusade now - The Party Crusade - a crusade in search of parties, exhilaration and (now that I have permission) Red Wine!

Make-up Free Zone

I am attempting to enter a make-up free zone.
The problem with being a child performer is that you learn to put on make-up at an early age in a fashion that enables your facial features to be seen from the nose bleeds of a white-lit auditorium.
Breaking those kind of habits is a tough gig.
I feel I need to step away from the bronzer - I caught a glimpse of myself the other day and in normal daylight, it looked like I had gone native - that or I was secretly a chimney-sweep.
I need to put down the mascara - Eyelashes should not double as a fringe.
And I need to back away from the illuminator. I'm my own traffic directing device on a heavy-handed day.
It's hard to get used to the naked reflection staring back - and naked is how it feels. I feel exposed, vulnerable and self-conscious. I feel worried that some is going to capture a "stars without make-up" picture of me and plaster it across the 'book.

But for me, entering the make-up free zone is a challenge.  A personal challenge to feel comfortable in my own skin - but beyond that, it is a challenge seeking more than comfort, more than acceptance, more than tolerance.  It is an attempt for me to step back from the garishness that can all too easily invade The Party.  Recently The Party has felt like a whirling, possessed carousel. On this carousel horses with hollow eye-sockets bray shrilly - the spinning is round and round and up and down and out and in. The lights that flash snap red and blue-black - blindingly and leaving spots echoing in my vision. And, like the captive I have become - I become part of the garishness, talons and fangs and course skin. The undertone that undermines sweeps dizzily alongside me. This is not The Party I had come in search of. This is the carousel I must escape.

Ede Kane at the office

Sometimes I think I should rename this blog - I am never at The Party. I have had brief moments where I have flitted through The Party, but my life at The Party has been reduced to almost nothingness.

This is Ede Kane at the office.

What is it about crying? You can receive a super blow and hold your shit together but if someone opens their heart and asks you if you are okay, you lose your shit.

Why do we lose our shit when people love us, and we are able to hold it together in front of people who hate us? Isn't it the people we love - aren't they the ones we want to be strong for? Why am I holding my shit together for someone who hates me, and in all emotional logic - I should probably hate back?

And then at the end of the day the only real hating going on is hating of yourself and the only really loving going on is incomprehensible and intangible through all your self flagellation.

It's a mixed up, messed up world at the office.

I always wish I was back at The Party.

I looked at my pictures of Montmartre and I wish....

Judge a book by its cover - judge a person by their friends

It occurred to me at 3am on Saturday night, that before 3am Saturday night, I had never even seen any of the three girls I was talking to.  We were immersed in nutting out of the girls’ five year plan.  But it wasn’t just me as the outside, they didn’t know each other before this Saturday night either.  In fact, as I looked around me I realised the only person I knew out of the thirty or so party-goers in our very crowded corner was the Birthday Girl.

The Birthday Girl and I were new friends, but she was one helluva girl, so I came along to her b’day bash.  The Birthday Girl is one of those bubbly, insatiably positive and uplifting goddesses that has friends from all walks of life.

I believe you can judge a book by its cover: -

a)      Saves time.

b)      It is quite telling- old/new?  Publisher with a lot of money/self published? Era, genre, length, etc, etc.

Just as you can judge a book by its cover – you can really judge a person by their friends.  This effervescent Birthday Girl was brilliant enough and popular enough to bring together people who may otherwise have never even given each other a sideways glance.  And here we all were, French martinis in hand, booties shaking and good times being had all round. 

Which  restores my faith – the good people are out there, you just have to search for them, and hold on to them when you find them.

Hold on to them for dear love’s sake.

The Listmaker

I make a list for everything.

I write my shopping in a list - not just my grocery shopping, my future shopping too.

I write birthdays in a list.

I write, on average, two to three to-do lists a day: a work to-do list, a home to-do list, and a to-do list I call the "life" to-do list.

I feel like it makes me organised. I feel so powerful and successful and confident whenever I can cross something off the list.  Striking out something you have achieved is a unique kind of uplifting bliss only the truly obsessive compulsive could ever truly understand.

But the shame - the horror - the failure and the defeat to close a day with a to-do list glaring at you with outstanding entries.

The paranoia - the defeat, the descent into hollowness and antipathy.

The spiralling out of control as the list grows then again the next day - more to do - more still un-done - hovering, waiting, scorning.

The list giveth and the list taketh away, at the start and close of each and every day.

Bitchin' Central

All the earth and all the love
All the stars and all the skies
Oh why does it take all my life and all my heart
It's never yes and never no
All it is, is to and fro
And I'm never knowing which way to go
All the money and all the time
All the oceans and all of the roads
All of the mountains and all of the hills
All of the fish
In all of the sea
All of the air
Terminal and velocity
Oh it's never yes and never no
Always just looking through, standing apart
But I've said take all of my life and all of my heart
I've give you all of my mind
just to find a way there
Chasing understanding
Never landing
Never knowing
Just to-ing and fro-ing
And hit and miss
Can this be fixed
And my my my I hope so.