Posts from — June 2011

Michelle and I were lucky enough to acquire tickets to the Power Plant Contemporary Art Gallery‘s Power Ball gala. I had really high hopes for this party, because I had heard stories from last year’s event about hot tubs, hallways full of candy, mysterious holes in the wall into which people would reach their hands and squeal, bartenders in panda suits serving drinks against a backdrop of screens set to the panda porn channel… everything I want to see in an art party, in other words.

With that in mind, you might understand why I was mildly disappointed with the show this year. I hate when I go into something with such high expectations; if I could just remind myself that I am a no-account girl at the appropriate time, I might better appreciate what I had.

That said, I did have a fantastic time at the party. The gallery was packed with people, from the very rich, to the moderately famous, to…well, me. Power Ball isn’t just some gala fundraiser—it’s an art party, so you tend to see a broader spectrum of people than you might at any other event that costs a hundred and sixty bucks a head to get in. I counted at least seven Lady Gagas, three of them men. It was fabulous. Oh, and then there was the little matter of the open bar.

If there is anything I love in a party, it’s free stuff. Food, drink, swag, I will have it all. And Power Ball had all three…sorta. It was difficult to come across any prepared food unless you hung out near the kitchen door, or managed to make it out through the mass of people on the patio to where there was, apparently, although thankfully I somehow missed it, an entire bull on a spit. However, even if I had found myself in the convenient locations for food acquisition, the dishes they were offering were a celebration of animal carnage, and being more into the vegetable variety, I opted for the chips I found in one of the fridges in the fridge room.

Refrigerators lined the walls of the room, each containing something different. Some contained comestibles, such as candy or cold beer, for the taking, which came in handy for Michelle when she didn’t want to wait in line at the open bar, and some contained art—not for the taking. Or so you might think, although near the end of the night I did see someone carrying around a stuffed chicken that I had seen in a fridge earlier in the evening.

But my favourite of all was a fridge full of plastic eyeballs, the sort that are encased in some bit of liquid in the plastic sphere so that the iris always points upward. But even better than the mild creep factor of a fridge full of eyeballs was the fact that when you took two of the eyeballs and smashed them together, they began to glow. Fun! At the beginning of the night I overheard a security person tell someone not to touch the eyeballs, but by the time I made it over there a couple of hours later, they were practically handing them out like candy. Needless to say I filled my pockets.

The other draw to an art party, besides the art, of course, and the open bar—of course—is the people-watching. And the people-watching was second-to-none! The place was wall-to-wall rich folks. I also saw a few well-known Canadians, like hip-hop artist K-OS and dancer/choreographer Blake McGrath.

But I was more interested in meeting a couple of local artists that I really admire, Allyson Mitchell and Deirdre Logue. They run the Feminist Art Gallery (FAG), which is basically Allyson’s workshop turned into a display space. I went there a few weeks ago to see Elisha Lim’s Illustrated Gentlemen and fell in love with the whole project of FAG. So I was really excited to meet both of them and talk about art. I also gave Deirdre two of the glowing eyeballs I had acquired from the fridge. She seemed suitably impressed.

The bathroom was a mess of plastic-surgered clones primping before the mirrors. At one point one Eurotrash-tourist asked the room where the next party was happening. I told her that North By Northeast was going on and there were plenty of after-hours parties all over downtown. She leaned into me and asked if these after-hours parties would be the kinds of places where she could find some marijuana. Being in a jovial and welcoming mood, I responded, “Oh, honey, you can find anything anywhere in this city—it’s always snowing in Toronto!” And she called out to her friend in delight: “Did you hear that, Mariana? She said it’s always snowing in Toronto!” And the two of them practically squealed with approval. I had to make a quick exit before she asked me exactly where the snow might be falling, because in truth I don’t know the answer to that question. I just know that the sentiment is true.

So Power Ball wasn’t without some spectacle; I had a fantastic time—not panda sex fantastic, but fantastic nonetheless—and hope to have the chance to go again next year.

One thing I have become accustomed to having spent my last couple of years immersed in the glamorous world of radio is meeting celebrities in person. Now most of the celebs I have met have been lesser-known stars, a lot of indie Canadian artists and the like, which has suited me very well, since I am big into indie Canadian artists. I met Mary Murphy when she was judging So You Think You Can Dance and she was as much of a hoot in person as she is on the small screen. I met Tre Armstrong from So You Think You Can Dance Canada and she was kind, humble, and breathtakingly gorgeous. I also met Carole Pope, as I may have mentioned once or twice, and she wasn’t as friendly as I had hoped. And although I had been warned not to expect a warm welcome from k.d. lang, she was as lovely and professional as a human being could be.

So I have learned not to expect anything one way or another from celebrities. You might catch someone on an off day and they could give you the wrong impression, or they might give you exactly the impression they wanted to give. I know better than to wear my hero goggles when meeting famous people, because in the end, once you are face-to-face with them, they cease to be the mythical creatures that fame has made of them and simply become people, and as disappointing as that may be at times, it can also be the biggest relief.

This week I had the pleasure of meeting three celebrities and an unwitting celebrity look-alike. Early in the week, Matthew Morrison stopped by the morning show on The Little Queer Radio Station That Could. He was in town doing a CD signing at a chain record store and was able to pop into the studio in person first, which was a real coup for the producer who booked it; usually someone as famous as a TV star in a top-rated Prime Time show would be too busy to offer anything but a phoner. I showed up early to work to meet him, but as it happened, the morning show hosts were being a bit overly protective of their prized visitor, so I was only very briefly able to catch him for a quick photo. He wasn’t much of a morning person, it appeared, but hey, he was on his way out the door. Plus, he was so incredibly handsome in person that I actually physically felt my breath catch in my throat when I saw him.

Note the photobomber peeking out from the room behind—that’s Pearse, about whom you will hear more in a moment. Hi Pearse!

So that flicker of a brush with celebrity was barely a spark before it faded out. I shrugged and figured I would get a bunch of work done, being that I had arrived so early in the day. However, my buddy Pearse Murray had other plans. After Mr. Morrison was ushered out the door in a cloud of record reps and publicists, Pearse came over to me and said, “Ah, well, that was that. I hope Ms. Cattrall is more receptive.”

I was like, “Ms. Cattrall? As in…Kim Cattrall?!”

And Pearse said, “Yes, I have an interview with her at ten at the Royal Alex Theatre. You want to come? You can be my producer.”

And I said, “HELLS, YES.”

So off we went to meet Kim Cattrall. She was giving a press conference to announce her co-star in the upcoming Toronto production of Private Lives at the Royal Alexandra. Cattrall had starred in the play in London’s West End, and now they were bringing it to Canada before heading to Broadway, but in the leap across the pond the production had lost its leading man to British television. Thus, they had decided to add Paul Gross to the cast in what will be his Broadway debut.

Paul Gross, it turns out, is actually an old friend of Pearse’s, so after the press conference, as the two of them were being ushered from interview to interview with television and newspaper reporters, Mr. Gross would walk by and offer subtle quips in our direction. Our little radio station is pretty low on the totem pole, so we had to wait for nearly two hours before we finally had our chance to sit down with them, but even after having given something like twenty other interviews, they were both still in very high spirits when it came to hanging out with us. They were just lovely. Polite, friendly, passionate… And also, they are both soooooo pretty.

You would think that celebrities would look less attractive in real life, what without the staff of hairdressers and makeup people on hand to keep them photo-ready. Well, actually Kim Cattrall did have a woman dusting her up with a powder puff every ten minutes or so, but still. One thing I have noticed across the board is that many of them are actually sexier in real life. Maybe it is just because I find real people sexy.

And so it wasn’t that surprising that a couple of days later when I ran into a real person who looked a lot like a celebrity, I found myself flirting a bit. I was in this gorgeous new gallery at a party for Paramount Pictures, where they were announcing the year’s new releases in theatres and on DVD. My friend and I stepped out to get some air, and this woman came strolling down the alley into which the gallery opened. She was staring unabashedly at me, smiling with such familiarity that I thought that she must know me. She looked vaguely like someone I might have recognized from somewhere, so I smiled back and said, “Hello.”

It became very clear very quickly that she did not, in fact, know me at all, but that I had thought her familiar because she looked a lot like Elizabeth Berkley.

…but, like, you know, clothed. And kind of arty. And totally hitting on me. Which was very nice. And now, see, here is the difference between how I treat celebrities and how I treat real people. Yes, I make that distinction. While I have learned—mostly—not to go all gaga over the rich and famous, I have not yet learned that trick when it comes to dealing with regular human beings. So here was this very beautiful Elizabeth Berkley-alike trying to get to know me a bit better, and all I could do was stammer and stumble and blush until I decided to take my leave and go back inside.

The entertainment industry is full of tips on how not to lose your cool over celebrities, but if anyone knows how to apply that knowledge to everyday encounters in the real world, I would appreciate the advice. Seriously, I am like, oh, whatever, you’re in Glee, you were in Sex in the City, and you used to be that Mountie guy, but here’s a woman who looks like someone who was in a movie so offensive as to be ludicrously cracktastic, and it’s—ohmigad! I don’t know what to say! HIDE ME!

And this is why I am only ever an *accidental* VIP.