I have been up in Lismore for New Years Eve. Now Lismore is not a pulsing centre of revolutionary cultural or intellectual advancement, its a sleepy town near the northern New South Wales coast about 90 minutes drive from the Gold Coast.
So why would I, international traveler of renown and bon vivant, be going there for my New Years festivities I hear you ask. Well it was my friend Tony’s idea.
Tony grew up in the area and his mother became ill (cancer) last year (2005). She passed away about 6 months after the diagnosis, and Tony spent most of that time with her after coming home from his long planned trip to the US. He was amazingly selfless, he just went home and stayed there doing everything for her until the end. He is a REALLY good person.His siblings and he have decided to sell the family home, so he has been going up there a lot to settle things and fix up the place for sale.
When my mother got sick in December last year, it become clear that I was going to be spending a lot of time on the Gold Coast. Tony suggested that if she was doing ok, and I could spare the time, I might like to come down to the Tropical Fruits party. This is a smallish party that has become a getaway for the jaded and less frantic of Sydney, to a lesser extent, Melbourne as well as regional New South Wales andBrisbane. Mum has bounced back FANTASTICALLY from what was a pretty harrowing operation, six hours on the table with three guys up to their shoulders rummaging around in her abdomen, so I figured I could sneak away for a little fun. The options of a/ going out in Melbourne and running into the unmentionables, or b/ sitting at home, were really not that appealing.
I flew into the GC, dropped by to see Mum to make sure she was ok and then drove down to Alstonville which is a little village outside Lismore and Byron where Tony’s place was. It was quiet and pretty and absolute delight.
Tony and I napped the afternoon away and then headed off to the party around 10.30, arriving at 11.00 with plenty of time to settle in. On arrival I ran into Leonie Dickinson working the door. Leonie was my exec producer at Open Channel for “One of these things” my sad little attempt at directing a documentary. She is the person who said straight out “you are not a natural director, you will really struggle. You are however a great creative producer. Focus on that!”A little brutal, but you need to be direct with me.
Pussy footing around about what you mean is pointless. She was horrified to be reminded how blunt she had been, but we had a good laugh about it. She is living up at Byron and LOVING IT.
I like to do a lap around any new venue to make sure I don’t get myself too lost later in the night when I am feeling sparkly so Tony and I did promenade of the party compound to get our bearings and to reviewing the troops. All up it looked like a fun space. Two big dance halls side by side, a smaller funk room, a tent lounge, and outdoor cinema showing experimental work (ick) and an art show. We wandered into this last one looking for a bathroom and it appeared that someone had thrown up some pretty average “art” in there.
Most of the alleged art work was vagina related including some model works made of blocks of wood, crazy fur and jam. What wasn’t literally pussy on display was evocative. Lots of pictures of lily’s and orchids done in over bright water colours. Suffice to say Tony and I skipped through there fairly quickly – without putting our hands in the large, dripping holes in the walls.
After grabbing a drink, it was time to explore the dance floor. We went into one of the halls, which wasn’t too busy. I commented on this to Tony who said there was enough space for him to samba, and promptly went on to prove his point. We laughed and continued dancing for a minute or so, until we realized that people seemed to be moving away from us. Quickly! And to such an extent that the hall appeared to be emptying.
Needless to say, in between laughing our arses off Tony was “scolded” for this reckless Sambering which had clearly frightened off the crowd of faux-butch queens we were dancing near. During said humorous scolding, the hall actually completely emptied, which left us kind of worried, so we moved out one of the doors and looked in the other hall – also emptied. Clearly word of Tony’s sassy steps had spread and people were rushing from the place in horror.
We moved out onto the grassy hill side running down from the halls to a large oval outside the party grounds to find all of the party goers standing with their backs to us. “Tony” I said, “If you were hoping to get laid tonight, I think you just blew your chances”.
It was at that point that the fireworks started.It appears that it wasn’t (only) Tony’s suspect samba. There had been some kind of queer flocking behavior that led everyone (bar us) outside to see something shiny.
The fireworks were frankly amazing given where we are, and it was easy to see where a lot of the $80/head ticket price had gone. Sure it wasn’t 3,000 kg of sparklers shooting off the Harbor Bridge or in Melbourne, but it was nice none the less. And given the glorious background of stars, it was all up a pretty wonderful way to usher in the new year.
That will do it for this post. There is more to tell, particularly about the Mcbethian delights of old friends and a fab pool party. But right now I think I need a little nap.
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