What's a no-account girl like me doing in a place like this?

On Wednesday night I was treated to second-row seats to see Bullet for Adolf, a new play written by Woody Harrelson and his BFF Frankie Hyman, and directed by Harrelson. It tickles me that Harrelson has this apparent love affair with Toronto as a place to open his plays. Take that Peoria! Oh, wait…

Anyway, so the play was…okay. The characters were quirky and fun, and the interactions between them generally enjoyable. But there is little thing in traditional dramatic structure referred to as “plot”—rhymes with “pot”—that was mostly missing from this play. Pot it had in spades, but as for plot, well, it was a bit thin. In fact, the main dramatic event that kicked off the central storyline didn’t occur until the moment just before the lights went down for intermission, by which time I’m pretty sure just about every character had partaken in at least one spliff.

Hey, but who needs plot when you have moderately funny people being moderately funny onstage? There was some witty dialogue playing on themes of racial harmony/disharmony, some romantic entanglement, and even a very human portrayal of a former Nazi sympathizer. And really, more important than the pot—oops, I mean plot—in this play was the relationship between the two main characters, who were very clearly and unapologetically based on Frankie and Woody themselves. Their BFF-forever-ness was almost endearing enough to carry over a plot-light comedy.

What really made the night, though, was not the play itself. It was the talk-back afterwards. Usually I am not a big fan of post-play or post-screening Q&As. I have been to too many of them where people don’t really ask any questions; rather, they use the opportunity to pose a whole theory or demonstrate their great knowledge of the subject matter, with an appended, “What do you think of that?” It can be a bit masturbatory, which is only really fun for the masturbator. Too much? Alright then, moving on.

This talk-back wasn’t like that at all. First of all, I don’t think anyone was under the impression that Woody Harrelson is some kind of great intellectual that would want to listen to a long, academic diatribe on his work, much less agree or disagree with it. Second, the guy moderating the talk-back did most of the questioning, and when he did choose from the audience, it appeared that he chose mostly people he knew and recognized. And third, it was clear that Woody was a bit stoned—or, you know, just in a really laid-back, happy mood—and he seemed inclined to either deflect the more complicated questions to Frankie or one of the cast members, or to go off on tangents about living his life in a happy, happy place, and then lose the point. In short, he was hilarious and totally lovable.

It was clear that relationships between people were more important to both Harrelson and Hyman than was plot. They really love their actors and spent a long time during the rehearsal process allowing the cast to improvise much of their characters. And their love for each other is front and centre. At one point Hyman talked about the multimedia elements to the play, saying that they filled him with feelings of nostalgia and love—1983 was the year that he met his best friend. Woody got all misty and hugged him. It was so cute I almost squealed aloud and seal-clapped. I have been known to do that in response to particularly cute puppies. Woody and Frankie are like really darned cute puppies.

Puppies!

Someone finally asked the inevitable, “Are you thinking of making this into a feature film, and if so can I give you my number?” question. Woody looked a bit confused, as though he wasn’t sure if the guy was hitting on him or trying to do business. At any rate, he just smiled and said he kinda thought of the production as a play, and then decided he wanted to go. I think maybe he was coming down. So the talk-back wrapped up neatly and we all headed out of the theatre. It was the best Q&A I have ever attended.

So despite the fact that the play itself was a bit more pot than plot, I thoroughly enjoyed my evening, and if I wasn’t a huge fan of Woody Harrelson before, I am now practically in love with the man. What better way to spend 4/20?

So the other day I had the following exchange with my Programming Director at The Little Queer Station That Could:

Programming Director: [Major Canadian Lesbian Music Icon] is going to be in town in a couple of weeks, and she’s taking interviews. She won’t be coming into the station, but she’ll be doing media from her hotel. And we’ve been offered a slot, so we need someone to do the chase interview. And you are our Dyke About Town…

Me: Um… I don’t really know anything about doing interviews. I might suck.

Programming Director: Well, there’s only one way to find out!

Me: But… would I be stepping on anyone’s toes?

Programming Director: Well, it’s sweet of you to concern yourself with how other people feel, but I personally don’t care.

Me: Hrm. I do.

Programming Director: Okay, I respect that. You can take some time to think about it, and let me know.

So I went about discussing this exchange with the people with whose toes I had concerned myself and was given the okay by all. Then I thought about all of the things that I could talk about with [Major Canadian Lesbian Music Icon]. We are from the same background and the same region of Canada, and we both experienced what I think of as an exodus from that region, and I have actually been alive long enough to remember her music as it crossed three or four genres, not to mention her very dramatic coming out which basically opened the door to what would become known as “lesbian chic” in the 90s. And I realised that even if I have no experience doing the announcer thing, I am very likely the perfect choice among the folks at our station for this particular interview.

So I went back to my Programming Director and told him that I am on board. On the 25th I am going to be interviewing [Major Canadian Lesbian Music Icon]!! I’m kinda freaking out about it. Yaiii!

I’ll fill you all in on the details after the event. And yes, I will also reveal the name of [Major Canadian Lesbian Music Icon], although some of the more Canadian-music-savvy of you have probably already figured that one out. Watch for it!

This weekend Michelle’s parents were visiting from New York, so we decided to give them our very own VIP treatment.

Michelle spent the better part of the beginning of the year curating an exhibition at the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Archives to celebrate the 100th Anniversary of International Women’s Day. Michelle and her fellow curator Roberta Wiseman had designed the space to resemble a women’s centre like the kind in which I first cut my feminist teeth when I was but a wee thing, with bulletin boards, posters, banners, and slogans painted on the wall. It opened on March 3rd with a great reception—cookies and tea were involved.

As a dedicated volunteer to the Archive and recently a lead archivist, Michelle has the keys to the kingdom. Quite literally, she has a key to get into the Archive during off-hours. So we decided to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon treating her folks to a private viewing of the exhibition. They were suitably impressed.

Michelle gave them a tour of the CLGA’s lovely new abode, a gorgeous Edwardian Italianate on Isabella Street. Being history, art, and architecture buffs, the folks were well pleased with the space and the collection. Michelle’s exhibition is on until May 12th at the CLGA, 34 Isabella Street. I encourage you to check it out.

Just around the corner on Church, there is a little gallery called Akasha Art Projects that I happened to know was going to be having an opening that afternoon. The owners are two lovely women, artists themselves, originally from Vancouver, who had done much of the framing for Michelle’s exhibition, and I had been over to the gallery to see their last show. This new opening was a solo exhibition of photography by Marni Grossman, a West Coast artist who captures the evocative, often ethereal landscapes of the Pacific Northwest.

Mama Schwartz was captivated both by the images themselves and by the pigment printing process the artist had used, giving the photographs an almost painted feel. I myself was transported back to my earliest youth, when these very landscapes made up the world around me. It was a dramatic exhibition and the folks were thrilled. And once again, I recommend anyone in the Toronto area visit Akasha Art Projects to see the gallery—upstairs at 511 Church Street.

Having whet our appetites with our art expeditions, we were ready to find some food. Every time the folks come to town, we are charged with the task of finding a new and suitably expensive place at which to let them treat us to dinner. If it doesn’t break the bank enough, they accuse us of being too proud to accept their generosity. The truth is that the finer dining places in town can be pretty short of vegetarian options, though, so we try to go for a nice middle ground—something romantic enough to suit their fancy for the fancy, but nothing too terribly upscale.

This time we had chosen a place in Little Italy that had an enticing menu for all parties. However, when we arrived without a reservation, it turned out that the tables were all booked. The maître d hesitated for a moment, and then informed us that the restaurant had a special private members’ lounge upstairs. As no members had yet arrived, he didn’t see why he couldn’t seat us there, as long as we didn’t tell anyone. Thus, I am not going to tell you the name of this establishment. I made a promise to a fella.

He led us out back outside and over to a door a distance down the street. It had a little grated window on it, and I was momentarily thrilled at the prospect that we would be made privy to some sort of speakeasy code word to gain entrance, but it turns out that the maître d had a fob key that did the trick. Modern times, man. What will they think of next?

We were led upstairs to a quiet, comfortable booth in a dimly lit room. The server brought over bread and menus, leaving us to get settled. I opened the menu to find a list of club rules. It was fantastic. Apparently this private club was one for appreciators of fine spirits and cocktails. There were the expected don’t-pass-your-membership-card-around kinds of rules, along with more prescriptive fellas-please-don’t-hit-on-the-ladies and don’t-get-too-drunk admonitions. But my favourites included the rule about people under the age of 25 having to be accompanied by an adult and not ordering generic drinks that you probably heard about on a TV show.

Incredible. We were greatly amused. The room soon began to fill with those fine spirit aficionados, but nonetheless, we were never rushed through our dinner. The service was second to none. Even when they brought me a dish I hadn’t ordered, resulting in my having to wait for my meal while the others began to eat, the server was quick to make up for the mistake by offering us extra wine. I’ll take that! In the end the food was delicious and the ambience quite impressive.

So we enjoyed our visit to the secret little speakeasy—truly the most accidental of my VIP experiences to date!—and will very likely be returning to that restaurant, although I suspect that the next time we’ll be sitting in the dining room with the regular folk. Note to self: reservations required.

Last night I was treated to some serious VIP indulgence at a chic new club on Richmond Street that my best boyfriend Mike Chalut is helping to launch, Black Moon. I don’t think I have yet witnessed the kind of star treatment that I received last night from everyone involved.

Now, Black Moon actually opened its doors a few months ago, but due to its location and possibly some lack in promotion, it has remained relatively under the radar. It is just off of the main Richmond Street bar strip, and I am not sure it was consistently open. Well, with Canada’s VIP Host Mike Chalut on the job, that’s about to change. Mike has a knack for filling up a place, and with his expertise added to exceptional service and unbelievable cuisine, I am predicting lineups around the corner for this one.

I was feeling extra special about this invitation. The re-launch of Black Moon is actually not until next week. Mike has arranged a media launch with some very prominent folks on the guest list. But last night he was throwing a private party for one of his best girlfriends, so he invited my partner and me for a private dinner to preview the place, even before the media. That guy really knows how to make me feel like a special super-duper-VIP.

And the place did not disappoint. The moment we walked through the door, Michelle and I were treated to drinks and shown to a private table near the window. My first impression of the place could be summed up in four words: absolutely, stunningly, breathtakingly gorgeous. It’s an intimate little lounge, with the perfect lighting to give you the feeling of privacy while still maximizing the space. Sheer curtains provide some separation in the room without obstructing or cluttering the place. And a bright globe of lights over the bar draws attention away from the fluorescents of the business strip buildings outside the window and back to where it should be directed.

I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with one of the owners, Amir Azizi, who took the time to come out and sit with us for awhile to talk about the restaurant. He still has some changes in mind, but he seemed pretty satisfied with how the room is shaping up. He was polite and made it very clear to us that we were to be taken care of this evening. I’m telling you: super-duper star treatment!

The server soon came by with the bread course—gorgeously presented, and with olive oil and balsamic infused with Parmesan. It’s always the simple things that impress me.

Then came the vegetarian dishes. I am a vegetarian with an aversion to mushrooms, so I am aware that when I go to restaurant openings, particularly in fine dining establishments, I will be lucky if I see anything beyond the bread course that will meet my tastes. But the head chef, Kai Zyganiuk, had been made aware of my dietary restrictions, and had made some beautiful tasting dishes for me.

First came a dish of heirloom tomatoes with baby greens and herbs, drizzled with olive oil and sunflower seeds. Delicious. And then came a second dish with roasted asparagus topped with julienne tomato, shaved Parmesan, fresh basil, and truffle oil, flanked by what I considered the pièce de resistance: freshly made ricotta cheese, locally acquired in Toronto’s own Little Italy, wrapped in bok choy, with porcini mushrooms. I know I said I don’t like mushrooms, but you know, I think Kai Zyganiuk may just be the man to change my mind about that. It was veritable food porn.

Then came the pasta course, a trofie pasta with tender, pulled chicken and a pistou porcini sauce. I had only a small bite of a chicken-free part, and it was very good. I assigned Michelle the role of tasting all meat-and-fish dishes, a duty which she carried out with relish. She was impressed with the pasta. It wasn’t quite as al dente as she prefers, but even she admits that she likes her pasta practically raw. From my one bite, I would say it was just about perfect.

After the pasta course, Mike invited me back to the kitchen to meet Kai in person and to see the chef in action. They were busy preparing the salmon dish. It’s a tight space, and they’re running a tight ship back there. Kai explained to me some of what he put into the meals—the man is nothing short of an artist.

I was also introduced to Abdi Ghotb, Black Moon’s other owner, who was on the line along with Kai and the other cooks making the magic happen. I was impressed to see a restaurateur involved in the actual workings of the restaurant. In my own past experience as a cook, restaurant owners were often removed from the day-to-day operation of the restaurant. Mr. Ghotb is both owner and chef, and I think his passion for the place comes through.

Soon the salmon was brought out to the table, atop a bed of delicately braised vegetables. Michelle once again took over the role of official food taster, and she was instantly in ecstasy. Now, I should tell you that Michelle is extremely picky about salmon. It is often served too undercooked for her comfort level, or else dried out from overcooking. This filet, she reported from between orgasmic bites, was grilled to absolute perfection. It was topped with a mild, slightly sweet grilling sauce that made a pleasant contrast to the savoury vegetables. She was in heaven.

There were other dishes on offer, but at this point were both more than sated with what we had been served. Kai made a point of coming out to speak to us about the meal. He was concerned that as a vegetarian I would be leaving his restaurant hungry, and asked if there was anything more he could do for me. I happily reassured him that I had been well-treated, but I certainly appreciated the special care he took to be sure of my satisfaction.

We enjoyed a few more drinks and just soaked up the atmosphere for awhile. The always fabulous Manny Mark, a consultant to Black Moon’s re-launch, sat with us for a bit and talked about how they plan to overcome some of the issues that the lounge had suffered in the past. The bar is exactly one short block from Old City Hall, right beside Sterling Tower and the surrounding Bay and Richmond businesses, and thus will make the perfect spot for a business lunch or let’s-knock-off-early drinks. And with the right host welcoming people in, it will make a swank weekend hotspot.

Even as we sat there I noticed on multiple occasions passersby taking notice of the place, peering through the window and trying to get a fix on what was going on inside. Even at this private party there were some local celebrities in attendance. Interest is already generating. It’s gonna be hot. Trust me.

Near the end of our evening, a distinguished and jovial gent in a very expensive suit took a shine to Michelle and demanded that we have a few vodka shots with him. He didn’t seem like the type who would take no for an answer in this kind of situation, so we took him up on his kindness and joined the party at the bar. There was a great vibe, people just having a good time with each other. We tottered out after a couple of shots. No need to let things get out of hand. We were full and a bit buzzed and happily satisfied with the evening.

Black Moon is opening with a public launch on Friday, March 25. If you’re in Toronto and you want to get in early on what I think is going to something of a phenomenon, check it out: it’s at 67 Richmond Street West, and you can RSVP with my man Mike Chalut: chalut@rogers.ca. I highly recommend you make that reservation.

So in addition to granting me admission to the seminars and awards ceremonies of Canadian Music Week, my very own delegate’s pass also gave me line-bypass status to all of the gigs and concerts that make up the accompanying Canadian Music Festival. I was almost as stoked for this pass as I was for the Crystal Awards. As you may recall from my foray to NXNE last summer, I do enjoy a free passport into all of the music events I can handle.

And man oh man, was there a lot going on in Toronto last week. Sammy Hagar was here, Melissa Etheridge, Janet Jackson…it was out of the park. Of course, I wasn’t interested in any of those people. I was interested in one name : JD Samson.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The Little Queer Station That Could kicked off Canadian Music Week with a queer showcase at the Gladstone. I was a bit late, so I missed out on Kevin Wong, although I heard he put on a fantastic show.

I did make it in time to catch Chris Velan, and I was thankful I did. If you like indie folk rock in the vein of Wilco, Ryan Adams, or Sufjan Stevens, you’re gonna dig this guy. I was really into him.

It was a bit odd that Creature was the act to follow; their music really didn’t fit into the more acoustic indie sound of some of the other bands of the night. But who am I kidding? I didn’t care—they were the band I came out to see. And they were well worth it. They have just enough sass and attitude on stage to keep things entertaining without becoming a stereotype of queer camp. So much fun! I think I danced three inches of my ass off. I would have danced the entire ass off, but they had just the one-hour set, and I had to save some of it for JD Samson. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Brigitte Bardot

I was going to have to get up early the next morning for those Crystal Awards, so I just couldn’t stay for Gentleman Reg. I have seen him numerous times before; he’s kind of that indie-guy-about-town—he’s everywhere. And for good reason. As my buddy Acey Rowe said about it, “If you haven’t seen Gentlemen Reg live, chances are you’re not a real Torontonian. Kind of like if you haven’t killed a cockroach with your bare hand or had a heart attack at Yonge and Dundas induced by the ‘BELIEVE IN THE LORD!’ guy… Seeing a Gentlemen Reg show is the best and most enjoyable way to confirm your Torontonian status.”

The next day, of course, I won that Crystal Award—you know, no big whoop—so I spent the rest of the day celebrating with my co-winner, other staff from our radio group, and pretty much anyone who would raise a toast with me, and consequently I didn’t actually make it out to any gigs. Oops.

And after all of that celebrating, I had to get up even earlier on Friday morning for the Trailblazers’ Breakfast, celebrating women in radio. It took about everything I had to put on my best networking face and schmooze with some very intelligent women in the business. I was pretty much dead set on going home after work and skipping out on the gigs I had planned to see that night. They were with bands I had never heard of before, and as much as I like to discover new music, I like catching up on my sleep even more.

But then that thing happened. You know the thing where a friend updates Facebook with plans to see a gig you hadn’t been aware was going to be going on, and it’s a band you checked out for the first time at last year’s NXNE and you really loved them and no amount of hungover sleep-deprivation is going to stop you from seeing them again? That thing.

In this case the band in question was The Pack A.D.—Vancouver’s dykey answer to the White Stripes and the Black Keys. As soon as we heard they were playing, Michelle and I switched gears from tired and lazy to awesome and fantastic and excited. We got our gear on and headed down to meet some friends at the Bovine, a Queen Street institution that has been around for about 20 years now. Its façade is decorated with a mass of rusted bicycles, hub caps, and various assorted yard tools in a bizarre sculpture. You can’t miss it.

Interesting as it is to look at, it’s a narrow and dank space inside, and it’s always inevitably filled with punk and metal boys, which can be a pain in the butt—literally. We managed to get to the front of the stage for The Pack, but we were so wedged in that I could practically feel the bulge of the fella behind me wedging itself into my…well, my behind. It wasn’t pleasant.

Nonetheless, the show was awesome. There wasn’t much room to dance, but I did my best to rock out. The hotness of Becky Black makes up for a lot of discomfort. We stuck around for their set and then headed out to other, roomier bars in which to find libations.
Cobra Matte

And Saturday was the day I had been looking forward to from the moment I looked at the CMW lineup. I have finally caught up with myself! Saturday was all about JD SAMSON. Specifically, MEN was going to be playing at Sneaky Dee’s. My love for JD stems from my love for Le Tigre, which itself stemmed from my love for Bikini Kill and Kathleen Hanna. There was a time in my life when I believed that Bikini Kill was the best band ever to have existed in history. That time was last week. It comes and goes, actually. From time to time I really need to scream out all of my feminist rage.

And at other times, I just really need to dance. Saturday was one of the latter times. Let me tell you, MEN provided everything I needed to do just that. Great beats, great energy, and great lyrics—the whole package. In fact, they even covered a Bikini Kill song! My brain would have exploded if I hadn’t been busy dancing the remaining inches of my ass off. It was fan-freaking-tastic!

After the show, I made my way up to the front, where JD was striking the stage in preparation for the next act. I screwed up all of my courage to squeak out that I worked in radio and would really like it if she would like to contact us whenever she was in town. She nodded, took my card, and said, “Thanks, I will.” I turned into a thirteen-year-old fangirl and *died*.
Off Our Backs

I pulled myself together and made my way over to El Mocambo, where Acey’s derby team was having a fundraising dance party. If there was anything left of my ass to dance off, I did so there. My friends arm-wrestled derby girls with varying levels of success, and we spent about four hours on that dance floor. It was the perfect way to cap off the festival.

I don’t know if it was because it was past four in the morning when I got home, if it was the beer I drank, or if it was the fact that I had danced parts of my body into oblivion, but on my way back to my humble abode at last, I managed to fall up the stairs. What I can tell you about that is that it sure beats falling down.

It was time to call it a night, and you know, I’ll also call it one of the best weeks I have enjoyed in a good long time.

Let me begin by wishing myself a happy anniversary! This week marks one year since I began as a copywriter for my Little Queer Radio Station That Could. Or writing radio copy at all, really, because before that I was writing lifestyle content pieces for one of the other radio stations owned by the company. The Creative Director for the Top 40 and Adult Contemporary stations was leaving, and they needed a writer to fill a position, so they gave me a try. It was a busy time and a tumultuous transition—basically they threw me in the water and hoped I could swim.

My being queer made me a logical choice to fill the role at the Little Queer Station That Could, located downtown in a separate studio and office from the radio group’s headquarters. I had been hoping to make my way over to the queer station since I started at the company—the people there just seemed to have a lot more fun. So I was smitten.

About two days into my tenure as a copywriter, I was handed someone else’s delegate pass and sent to learn the ropes at a series of seminars and panels at Canadian Music Week, an industry event that brings together record labels, artists, radio stations, and reps from all over the globe to share ideas and knowledge about all facets of the music world. I took fastidious notes and filled my head with ideas for taking over the creative world. I also got to attend the gala lunch for the Crystals, an awards ceremony honouring the top creative from all of Canadian radio.

As I sat listening to the year’s finalists, I thought to myself, I can do this. I made a pretty lofty goal for myself at that luncheon: next year, I was going to be among those honourees. I didn’t care if I was an honourable mention or a gold winner, I was going to be invited to this event instead of sneaking into the gala under an assumed identity.

Copywriting turned out to be a steeper learning curve than I had initially anticipated. Between client demands, time constraints, and talent diva-tude, there are a lot of potholes to manoeuvre on the road to the Perfect Commercial. My Programming Director is not always exactly the most forthcoming with praise (for which I can’t really fault him—he has high standards and maintains faith that we can meet them, which is actually a compliment…sorta…right?), and my own creativity could wane sometimes when faced with ways to make plastic surgery sound like something that isn’t totally against everything I ever believed in. Let me tell you, selling out is a buzz-kill.

But in October, there was a promotional opportunity that came up that was very close to my heart: International Coming Out Day. There was no sell to this promo; we just wanted to draw attention to the idea of coming out and drive people to our website. Given the last year’s rash of queer suicides, we felt it was a timely and necessary message that reached beyond just our core audience, but to the wider community.

The PD had an idea to have someone come out on air, maybe with some prizing, but that idea was soon shot down. There were just too many ways it could go terribly wrong. Instead, my BFF Producer Jonathan and I thought we could just have staff members tell their coming out stories, and invite listeners to share theirs with us via email. It was a celebration of our stories and a call to action.

Still, there were members of the staff that wanted to kill the promo. They didn’t like the idea of coming out; they didn’t see why it was relevant or necessary. Some of them were disinclined to talk about their experiences and didn’t understand why anyone else would want to do so. I am inclined to believe that they remembered what it felt like to be told not to flaunt their sexuality, and they had internalized the admonition. I understand that position. Hell, I lived it for my entire early life, and even now I have trouble holding my partner’s hand when I return to my conservative hometown. All of this only makes my position on the matter even more adamant: our stories are important because when we share them with each other we feel less alone, and with any luck we love ourselves a little more.

Jonathan and I really went to bat for this one. We believed in the message and we believed that we had the ability to treat the event with dignity and respect even while promoting the radio station. After no small amount of debate, we received approval from the right people and went ahead. I gathered together some of the staff members who were willing to talk about their coming out experiences, and Jonathan recorded them. I wrote a promo that spoke to the idea of coming out as a powerful and personal decision. We invited the community to join us in sharing in the celebration. We put everything we had into this promo.

Photo Credit: loudervoice

Early in January, I was walking by our Music Director’s office to let a guest into the office, and I heard him casually say, “Congratulations, stark.” I was like, “What’s that now?” He showed me the email he had just received. The first line read: “On behalf of the 2011 Crystal Awards Committee, congratulations! The entry you submitted has been selected as a Finalist for a 2011 Crystal Award…”

And I think it was at that moment that my mind blew up.

I burst into the studio to let Acey, the afternoon co-host, know that her guest, a local restaurateur, had arrived, and I fairly screamed out the name of the guy in my excitement. Acey was a bit confused as to why I was quite so ecstatic about this guest, but she responded goodnaturedly, “Great!” And then I told her about the email and she jumped into my arms and squealed. Acey’s pretty cute, so it was a good day to be stark.

I spent the next two months trying not to get too excited. I had already achieved my goal to be invited to the Crystals as a finalist, and that in my first year in this particular leg of my career. I felt already like I had won.

But still, you know, I had some hopes. I wanted to bring home a Crystal. It wouldn’t just look good on my resumé. It would make me feel like I had really found something that I was doing well. So I bided my time until Canadian Music Week, when the Crystals Gala Luncheon would take place.

Last Tuesday the tickets and passes for CMW came in at last. This year I didn’t have to go as Alex McDonald from programming; I had my very own delegate pass! I am thrilled by small things. The Crystals were going to be awarded on Thursday. Jonathan and I made plans to coordinate our outfits to be as fabulous as possible, and when we met that morning, I have to say, we made a pretty sexy coupla queers.

We were nervous as hell and drinking all the wine that we could coax out of the server. He was already somewhat disdainful of me after I had demonstrated my inability to choose the correct fork for the salad—I’m not used to $130-a-head lunches after all—so he gave us a bit of the stink-eye, but what can you do, the wine was a necessity for two reasons:

1. We were, as I said, nervous as hell.
2. The comedian they had hired to emcee the event was awful.

Thus, wine was required. In copious amounts.

We sat with our PD and shared a table with some other folks, including someone who admitted that he had been part of the independent judging committee that had looked at the radio promotion campaigns. He said to us, “You know, I shouldn’t probably be talking about this, but I remember your promo. It immediately stood out from all of the others.” That was promising news!

Our category came up and we awaited the verdict in anticipation… I swear I sweat half my weight in the ten seconds it took the emcee to introduce the category name.

I heard him announce it through the pounding of blood pulsing in my ears: We won Bronze! Out of around 500 entries from all across Canada, our little queer promo from our Little Queer Station That Could came in third. I was ecstatic!

The PD was not. In fact, his first response was to mutter, “Fuck!” He later apologized and allowed that it was actually a great achievement. He just thought that we deserved gold. I did, too, but I was less inclined to be put off by petty details. Hello, top three in all of Canada. And this from a couple of first-timers at a 50-watt radio station! I am quite satisfied with that status.

…For now. Next year the goal is GOLD.

If there was anything we did all year for which we could have been recognized, I personally am so proud that it was this promo. Jonathan and I fought hard for this thing to happen, and we put our blood, sweat, and other various bodily fluids into making it happen. I am so honoured, I have been beaming for three days straight. I’m a Crystal Award Winner!

International Coming Out Day Promo

On Thursday night I decided to take my Michelle out on an early birthday date. It was both planned months in advance and totally last minute.

In November, I found out that our Little Queer Station That Could had picked up an ad client for the Toronto performances of Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo, more affectionately known as the Trocks. I was thrilled. I had heard of the Trocks through Michelle, who had seen them back when she still lived in New York and has been hoping for them to come to Toronto ever since.

Now here’s the thing about Michelle: she loves drag queens. I mean loves them. With a passion. Lots of italics. Once we went out to Crews and Tango on a Wednesday night after leaving halfway through a rather unfortunate advanced viewing of some avant-garde queer performance at Buddies in Bad Times. There was a drag queen in the back room who refused to perform until the crowd had thickened to her desired quantity, and Michelle could barely contain her adoration. When the righteously imperious queen finally began her performance, Michelle kept tipping her for requests. With my money, I might add. She was in love.

So as soon as I knew the Trocks were coming to Toronto in February, I knew what Michelle’s birthday gift was going to be. The problem, of course, is that with the lowest priced seats running at 80 bucks a pop, Trocks tickets are a bit out of range for a no-account girl like me.

The sales rep who secured the account reassured me that there would be tickets for me at the station, however. She had planned a big promo night with Miss Conception, voluptuous drag queen extraordinaire and also our station’s own midday host. I was very excited at the prospect.

But then the sales rep left the company for better-paying shores and the account was sort of up in the air, and the next thing you know, there were no tickets and no promo and I was what we trash girls like to call S.O.L. I made phone calls, I spoke to reps and promo people, I did everything I could, and the best answer I could get was “We’ll see.”

So I made other plans.

But then! Here is my testament to how lovely my on-air hosts are: on Tuesday I was in the studio, when Mike Chalut asked Acey Rowe if she was going to see “that ballet thing” on Thursday. I was like, wait just a second, mister. I have been trying for three months to hook myself up with tickets, you don’t even know who the Trocks are, so how did you get an invite? Of course, on-air hosts get everything.

Okay, so I was a bit bitter for a moment.

But there is no way to stay bitter with Mikey, because his first and only reaction was to send his invite to me, so I could RSVP for the tickets. Sweet boy! This is why he’s my best boyfriend. I don’t think the woman at the PR company had any idea who I was, but she graciously responded with my confirmation, so I was set.

And then the next morning, Miss C called me into her studio, saying, “Don’t tell anyone this, but I pulled a few strings for you.” And she produced from her pocket two more tickets. And this is why she is everyone’s best girlfriend in the office. Not only was I set for a date with Michelle, but I could bring friends!

Don’t let anyone tell you that the radio jocks at the Little Queer Station That Could are divas. Their creative director may be a bit embittered and cranky sometimes, but those hosts are truly first rate people. I love the heck out of all of them.

So I got to surprise Michelle with tickets to her favourite thing on the planet after all. I called her up and told her not to make any plans for Thursday evening, and I dressed up all handsome-like for the show. I took her out to dinner beforehand—okay, I took her to Chipotle, but it was her choice, and if my lady wants burritos, dammit, my lady is gonna get burritos!

And the handy thing about Chipotle is that it is just steps away from the Winter Garden Theatre, where the performance would take place. What a bizarre little theatre! You walk in and go up about seven floors of escalators because it is stacked on top of the larger Elgin Theatre on the ground floor. Then you walk into the Winter Garden and there are fabric leaves and garden lanterns hanging from the ceiling, beech branches hand-woven into the ceiling grid, sculpted tree trunks supporting the balconies, and painted foliage frescos on the walls. Michelle felt like she had wandered into Middle Earth.

There are a few really cool things about the Elgin and the Winter Garden. The complex, originally called the Loew’s Yonge Street Theatre, was one of only a few double-decker theatres designed by architect Thomas W. Lamb in the early 20th century, primarily used for vaudeville performances. All other double-decker theatres have since been demolished—the Elgin and Winter Garden are the last operating stacked theatres in the world, and so the complex is now a National Historic Site. The Elgin is a gilded jewel box, while the Winter Garden is a vaudevillian hobbit’s den. Both are gorgeous.

The Winter Garden actually came as quite a surprise to developers restoring the old Elgin. Vaudeville’s appeal declined near the end of the 1920s, with the growing popularity of the motion picture. By 1928, the Winter Garden was shuttered entirely, used as a storage facility for old vaudevillian props and sets. The Elgin was transformed into a movie theatre. The building fell into disrepair, and by the 1970s was used to screen mostly B movies and porn flicks.

In 1981 the Ontario Heritage Trust bought the theatre and began a painstaking restoration of the Elgin. It was during the restoration that developers discovered the Winter Garden upstairs, and the treasure trove of vaudevillian sets and props that had been left inside, which now comprises the world’s largest collection of vaudevillian scenery—posters, hand-painted backdrops and flats that date back to the early 20th century. Amazing! I’m going to have to go back to the theatre for a tour.

And that concludes today’s history lesson, class. Back to our scheduled theatre review. It does relate, though; I cannot think of a better venue in which to see the Trocks perform. The Trocks are a drag troupe of the classic order, bringing a real vaudeville humour to the modern audience. They aren’t doing the kind of bar drag I’ve become accustomed to seeing, all camp and fabulousness and jokes about being on the rag. There’s a long tradition from which they are drawing, a theatrical lineage that dates back to Shakespeare, and even further. Xtra Magazine published a great article about it that gets to the crux of what I am trying to express.

The show was funny as all get-out. The facial expressions alone of some of the dancers were enough to get the crowd roaring. And let me tell you, these boys girls could dance. My ballet-loving friend was not as impressed as I was, although she wasn’t entirely unimpressed, either. Neither of us had ever seen men en pointe before. That’s some serious business.

In one number, Toronto-raised Joshua Grant, dancing as Katerina Bychkova, did the Death of the Swan entirely en pointe and it was incredible. Not only the dancing, but the costume—it was a testament to engineering, with feathers falling consistently and continuously from it as the dancer’s feet moved, finally covering the entire stage. The visual effect was rapturous. I don’t envy the stagehand who has to sweep up those feathers and cram them back into that tutu.

Michelle appreciated her early birthday date. Shameless Girlfriend Plug: she wrote about the Trocks afterward on the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Archives blog. Check it out.

In sum, it was a fantastic show with some excellent performers—athletic dancers and brilliant humourists. I was well pleased. I got to treat Michelle to an exciting pre-birthday treat, and I got to experience the vaudevillian flair of ballet en travesti. Fan-freakin’-tastic.

Last night my good friend and puppy, the famous and talented Chris Howson of Your Morning With Richard and Chris, took me as his plus-one to see the opening match of the Toronto Roller Derby. I brought my own plus-a-few-more, and it was a hopping party.

We actually had plans to meet up with a bunch of other people there, but two things happened: first, it started to snow. We had no idea it was coming; it had been sunny and relatively warm all day. A few days ago the news outlets were all abuzz with foretellings of a snowpocalypse that failed to transpire. I am convinced that they were so embarrassed by the experience that they decided simply not to mention this snow at all.

Anyway, so the streets were disgusting. One of my plus-a-few-mores had picked up a car from Autoshare, a nifty little service for those of us who don’t drive enough to warrant the parking and insurance fees. He and Chris picked us up from my place and we crawled through the treachery toward The Hangar at Downsview Park, a former military hangar now used as a multi-purpose recreational facility. And since the place is located practically at the North Pole, we felt like Acrtic explorers making our way through the messy storm.

We made it safely, however, and we weren’t the only ones. The place was packed. We received texts and emails from our friends, saying that they had been delayed by the storm and by the *coincidental track maintenance on the subway. Apparently some of our friends did see us there, but there were so many people around that when they called out for us, we didn’t hear or see them. There were more than a few moments when I would be walking with Chris or Michelle, turn around to look at something, and then turn again and find myself unable to see the person who had been next to me not three seconds before. It was that busy.

*Okay, let me just take a moment to bitch about the subway situation. Ever since Rob Ford took power as mayor of Toronto, he has proposed the most ludicrous cuts and changes to the TTC, making it clear that he has no concern for the people who actually live in this city, but only for those like himself who live in the suburbs and commute in by car. One of the proposed cuts is the bus that goes up to Downsview Park. This park not only holds one of the largest and most popular rec centres in the city, but also is home to multiple other facilities and services. It should not be accessible by car only. There has been a great deal of protest regarding the cuts to this particular bus line, and thus far it has not yet been closed. However, rather suspiciously, the subway line to Downsview Station, where one would catch the Downsview Park bus, is now undergoing track maintenance, all-too-coincidentally scheduled exactly on the nights when the Roller Derby games take place and the bus is most popular. A matter of scheduling convenience, or a deliberate attempt to drive down usage numbers to make the case for shutting down the bus line? I am leaning toward the latter. In sum: Rob Ford is THE DEVIL.

*ahem* Anyway, so yes. Storm and crowd led to group plan failure. Not to worry, though; between the four of us and the few friends we did manage to herd together, we had a good little cheering section. And as it happened, we were cheering for both teams. That’s my favourite way to watch sports.

In the season opener, the Death Track Dolls were taking on last year’s reigning champs, The Gore-Gore Rollergirls. I have been working on cultivating my acquaintance with the Dolls’ SlamWow into a friendship, so I was all about the Dolls, but Chris, who has been a big ToRD fan since he went to see a match last summer, has friends all over the league and a big girly crush on Gore-Gore blocker Santa Muerte. Of course, by about ten minutes into the game, I had a big girly crush on every last one of those girls.

Roller Girls

These are some serious athletes. It was pretty clear from the start why the Gores had taken the championship last year—within the first five jams they were dominating the game at 50 – 5 over the Dolls. They have this jammer, less-than-thrillingly named Bambi, who makes up for the lack of ferocity in her moniker by being incredibly deft and skilled on skates. She weaves through the pack like she’s just leisurely strolling through the aisles of the local No Frills, picking out her groceries, while everyone around her is sweating and swearing and bumping and wiping out. She’s un-freakin’-believable!

Sidenote: Bambi also plays bass for a local punk band, Spitfist. Good times.

But those Death Track Dolls weren’t going down without a fight, either. In one jam, the Dolls’ jammer Land Shark made about three laps and brought the score up ten points. It was at around this point that Michelle’s pants caught fire and disintegrated. I think she’s gonna leave me for a rollergirl.

There was some serious action going on, and aside from the fact that the concession folks didn’t seem to want to order more than two pizzas at a time to feed a hungry crowd of hundreds—I watched the last slice disappear into the hands of the person just in front of me in line twice before I was finally able to get my hands on a piece—it was an all-out bitchin’ time. Barring any future ill-reported snow storms, I will definitely be going back.

Oh, and Chris and I did manage to catch up with SlamWow, as well, who was looking exhaustedly happy, despite a defeat of 107 – 43.

What a great game—makes me want to strap on a brand new pair of rollerskates myself.

Brand-New-Key

About a week ago, Mikey informed me that my presence would be required at the opening of a new restaurant in the village. So last night I went to the opening of Sugo. It was a private press-and-invite-only party that Mikey was hosting. The public opening takes place tonight.

Now, you know a no-account girl like me can never afford to turn down a free meal, much less drinks, so I was in, although I have to admit I was a bit sad to see that the restaurant and bar that had previously occupied that space was now gone. Voglie had been a popular place for the hot young hipster dyke set on a Saturday night, and had a great patio for, uh…sight-seeing in the summer. I was heartened to find out that the two women who had owned Voglie were still part of Sugo, however. They were simply bringing in Jimmy G., owner of Fuzion next door, O’Grady’s down the street, and another spot on the Danforth, as a business partner for the relaunch.

I ran into a friend yesterday and asked her if she was going to the opening. She works for one of Jimmy’s other restaurants, so I assumed she would be attending, but she said she wasn’t sure. She wanted to know the details of what was being offered, because she had had experience enough with Jimmy to know that he was usually too cheap to offer anything for free. He had even charged the staff for their drinks at the staff xmas party.

But I pulled out my little invitation and confirmed that it promised “complimentary drinks and a tasting selection from Chef Lia’s menu.” My bitter employee friend remained unconvinced, but she could not deter me—I had even invited my BFF/First Wife the Kabuki Librarian to be my Hot Date for the evening.

Now, my First Wife is no slouch when it comes to playing the part of Hot Date. She rivals the fabulous femme fatale defense attorney I took to New Year’s Eve at Brassaii. I believe she also wore opera gloves! What is with all of these beautiful femmes who are willing to be seen in public with me?

So Kabuki showed up in her coach and we walked into the restaurant with Mike. We were among the first to show up, because Mike had to be there early. Jimmy introduced himself and welcomed us warmly. He was pleased to learn that I had spoken of the restaurant opening on my on-air events listings, and was very concerned about whether Mike had been pimping the event on his show.

And that’s about where the pleasantries ended. Almost immediately, there was confusion over the drink situation. It was just after the bar had poured the drinks we had assumed were complimentary, as suggested on the invitation, that Jimmy came over and informed Mike that in fact drinks from the bar were not open. There would be drink tickets, but they were only to be used at a satellite bar that would be serving beer. And just one type of beer at that. Ever the gentleman, Mike would not hear of us paying for the drinks we had just ordered, instead shouldering the tab himself despite my protestations.

We took our drinks and tickets and set ourselves down at a table near one of the three gorgeous fireplaces. It was cozy and pretty, and soon we were chatting with friends and enjoying ourselves. Not in the mood for second-rate beer, free or not, I bought my second gin & tonic while my Hot Date nursed her wine. Some folks from the radio station joined us and we had something of a party going.

My commercial producer Jonathan and his boyfriend showed up with glasses of wine. Apparently Jimmy had changed the rules, so wine was now being served at the satellite drink-ticket bar as well. I decided I would like a glass and Kabuki had reached the bottom of hers, so I went and grabbed some for us.

The place had picked up and the front room was wall-to-wall men. Mike was making his rounds and ensuring everyone’s comfort. I heard someone ask him about the food situation and, as if on command, my stomach responded with such a growl I could hear it over the din of the crowded room. That was a good point: where was the food? We had been there nearly an hour and a half and not a flight of appetizers had made the rounds. I don’t like to complain about stuff I get for free—um…mostly—but this was a restaurant opening, after all. One might expect food at such an event.

20 or 30 minutes later, a tray of food did arrive—miniature bruschetta on slices of baguette. One of my friends from the station gave up at that point. He had been up since his morning show started at 6 a.m. and he wasn’t a fan of tomatoes, so if this was all that was on offer, he was going to try his luck at the McDonald’s on Yonge.

Another 45 minutes later came a second tray of the same bruschetta bites. I took two this time. My Hot Date was looking less than impressed with the showing. I decided it was time for a second glass of wine, so I slithered through the muscles in the front room toward the satellite bar.

When I reached it, however, they had run out of the red, so the barman asked another server to grab more from behind the bar. The coworker returned with the news that Jimmy had nixed the wine and we were back to second-rate beer. There was just enough white left to fill a glass for my Hot Date, but as for me, I had to settle for the cheap shit. I returned to my table, crestfallen, drinks in hand.

Looking around, I noticed that most of the women I had seen earlier had left, and the room was almost entirely populated by men. In fact, Hot Date, myself, our friend from the radio station, and Michelle, who had just shown up after an evening at the Archive, were the only women in the back room, and from what I had seen wrestling my way to and from the bar, the stats weren’t much different up front. I thought back to the days of Voglie and sighed to myself.

It turns out that this gender distribution was no accident. I later spoke to one of the people who had interviewed Jimmy about his plans taking over the restaurant. He was saying that he wanted to host bear nights, men’s events, and whatever he had to do to erase any trace of the dyke bar reputation that Voglie had achieved. He wanted to wipe that right out like a stinking, distasteful stain.

Now, I can handle a restaurant that doesn’t want to give me the drinks I want. And you know, food would be welcome, but still a side concern. But no lesbians?! That is just going too far. It’s just all sausage, and still nothing to eat!

Although service had begun on some mediocre flatbread pizzas—by the way, I am so over flatbread pizza; everyone seems to be serving them these days and I find them an utter snore—I decided it was time to get out of there.

Let me tell you, from an industry point of view, this had to be the worst restaurant opening I can imagine. You offer drinks, then you offer only those drinks and not these, and then you offer these drinks too, but then change your mind and go back to serving only those. And you have invited the press to this event! I went home from this restaurant opening and immediately opened my fridge in search of something to eat—I’m thinking I probably won’t be going back.

I hadn’t been out dancing in awhile, so I decided last night to go to the Phoenix Concert Theatre in my old stomping grounds on Sherbourne Street. I had only been to the Phoenix before for concerts; I went to see Peaches there a couple of years ago, as well as the Breeders.

Both concerts hold a tie in the category of The Best Concert I Have Ever Attended, and the venue played no small role.

The Phoenix is my favourite venue in Toronto for concerts. Not only does it boast great acoustics and a stellar sound team, but the size and setup of the room offer you a great vantage point of the show from anywhere, even when you are standing against the back wall. And on top of it all, they have a DJ night on Fridays after their gigs, so the Friday night concerts start at 8 and are usually done by 10:30 PM. Granny Stark here likes to be in bed by eleven.

But last night I wasn’t going to any concerts. I was just going to rock out. The Phoenix has long had a hard rock/alternative night on Saturday nights. However, over the past few years, it has flagged in popularity. The room is relatively large. I think the capacity is around 700 people. Before the New year, they were averaging somewhere around 125 people.

But now they’re looking to pick things back up again, with the help of DJ Bingo Bob, also known as…my boss. Thus, of course, I wouldn’t be paying the ten-dollar cover, thank you very much.

Bingo Bob is an odd name for a DJ, don’t you think? Apparently he actually used to call bingo, before he got his gig as a producer on The Humble and Fred Show at Edge 102, and the name stuck.

It turns out Bingo and I have a lot of musical tastes in common—the Ramones, Pixies, Yeah Yeah Yeahs—so I was looking forward to the night. I met up with a few friends and we hit the dancefloor. Drinks were had, people were bumped around. A girlfriend of a friend showed up unexpectedly, and unexpectedly drunk.

Girlfriend was very happy to see me. I had made her a mix CD and she was pleased. She high fived me with the kind of judgment reserved for those who can stomach 13 oz. of vodka in one sitting and still have room for beer. Which is to say, what she thought was my hand was actually my face. Getting high-fived in the head by a girl who lifts boxes all day is…less than pleasurable. As I had not had quite so much to drink as her, however, I was able to avoid the brunt of the blows, and just smiled my way out of the conversation and over to a corner of the dancefloor that was safely out of reach.

There I found my buddy Jonathan and his boyfriend stirring up a little Queer Fear by having the audacity to dance together. In a room full of macho hard rock guys, it’s a ballsy thing to do. Noting the disdain on one particular man’s face, they made sure to *accidentally* bump into him as often as possible, apologizing politely every time.

This game soon grew tiresome, however, and after a couple of hours of requesting Bruno Mars to no avail, Jonathan and boyfriend made as though to leave. At that very moment, the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” started, however, and I convinced them to stick around so we could all have one last little jump around before they took off. As I was jumping around, a light caught my eye from the floor. I thought to myself, “SHINY!” and bent to see what it could be.

Lo and behold, it was a toonie! Two bucks, man, I was well pleased. And then more shininess drew me to a nearby loonie. Three for the money, now go, man, go! And next up I found the not-so-shiny, but even more pleasing ten-dollar bill. Sir John A. MacDonald never looked so handsome. I just made my drink money back! Time for more gin.

In the end, our man Bingo Bob brought in around 400 people, at least triple the pre-2011 crowds. I hope it keeps up—if only because it will mean he’ll be in a better mood at work.