Don’t you love those parties that you wander into with a bunch of people you kind of collected in the street and your friend is wearing a helmet but has no bike and the one guy you thought you knew who lived there isn’t there, and maybe he doesn’t live there at all and you can’t quite remember if this is a birthday or a housewarming or a freaking canary shower or what the hell, and the people in the kitchen look at you strangely but the Argentine girl neatly arranges corn chips on a slice of buttered bread and offers you a canapé, and you all fall about giggling while no-one understands, and then the people in the hallway don’t know anyone and so you just say they should pretend to be your friends as though that’s a pass to everything, and the only way to get to a chair is to climb over forty bikes and a railing and then you’re stuck in there in a forest of spokes but as least you get to punctuate your sentences by ringing that bell, and Bike Helmet Man has one too though it’s not his, and you both howl at the street until the guy with the rainbow umbrella arrives in a pink shirt and pointy shoes, and then he has a macho contest with the guy with the leopard-print umbrella who arrives just afterwards, and a girl takes you back to primary school via offensive anagrams of her name and her non-boyfriend-who-should-act-less-like-one-if-he-wants-to-avoid-confusion speaks French but has no-one to speak it to and the rain just won’t quite quit and the two of them slyly colonise the brave manly umbrella towns and there are crazy Cubans dancing to the worst of every decade louder and louder and the Colombian rocks up with all his Venezuelan friends until the party is like MERCOSUR, and the Argentine girls sit on the bed and laugh and laugh while the leopard-print guy sans leopard-print sits in the window like a Raffaelite painting and tries to speak Italian to them and the Frenchman has flowers in his hat and knocks glasses over with his backpack, and the pink shirt guy hands you a shopping bag full of longnecks and you try to explain that this is not a safe custody arrangement but he has to dance, he just has to dance, and so you drink and drink and a grinning maniac with a beard yells at you for not being a matrilineal Jew and another bearded woodman type comes in and waves his socks around like dead fish and the pink shirt guy cuts the rug while the Cubans go louder still until they blow up the amp and you climb out the living room window to make an escape while the Frenchman leads a drum group on a bucket, and they crash their bottles and bang the walls and another two French guys look like a Venezuelan and the Argentinians start shouting about glowsticks and all they can say is “Es un estick de glow!” and a former roller-derby champ just won’t give up trying to roll that cigarette in the deluge and the outdoor toilet is like a portal to a terrible dimension or a hiding place from the Spanish Inquisition and that seems apt because apparently everyone here speaks Spanish now except for the other French guys who are confused while the clean-cut young Australian non-boyfriend tries to speak French to the Venezuelan and everyone is going at once and you are trying your damnedest while also laughing hysterically because you know it just doesn’t matter, and you end up wasted and shouting in an unfocused fashion on the dampest of damp couches that won’t fit into the front porch with your legs splayed awkwardly over the rail while you talk to Peter Moon’s niece as she shivers and clutches her purloined rainbow umbrella in the rain?
Geoff edits Going Down Swinging
- When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire
- Hey, Kat
- Meet Australia, the traitor who turns you in
- Now’s a really good time to re-think voting Abbott
- Strung out like jungle flowers
- Best text message exchange ever
- Campbell of the Overflow
- Want to write new work with Elefant Traks?
- They arrested my high-school guitarist
- Better than chicken
- Where the hell did that Heathen Scripture guy go?
- Just because it’s free… (the worst CDs from the storeroom of doom)
- Bondi Junction fitness gangsters are not Julia Guillard
- Hey Yumi, stop being so goddamn Japanese
- As a poet, Rinehart makes a great billionaire
- Christmas, or How I learned to stop wishing a violent death on reindeer
- Talking on the internet
- The life and death of Peter Roebuck: a good man, a bad man, or something in between
- Tie the Kangaroo down, Joyce