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.

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.

There are straight people, and then there are straight people. The straight people I hang around with are only really straight because they happen to sleep with people of the opposite sex. In fact, one of my straight girlfriends puts me to shame with her vast knowledge of the queer events around town. She does drag, which even I haven’t done in nearly a decade, and I believe the entirety of Toronto’s lesbian population is included somewhere in either her or her husband’s address book.

She is an example of a straight woman whom I would have called “queer” back in the 90s when the word was radical and didn’t refer to a bunch of gay minstrels showing men how to dress and decorate properly on TV.

Now while most of my straight girlfriends aren’t donning fauxstaches and dancing before crowds of mesmerised lezzies, they are all so comfortable with their sexualities and with those of their friends that it wouldn’t occur to them to mark some kind of fixed delineation between themselves and the queers with whom they associate on a regular basis.

And I am so used to being around them that I forget where my little bubble ends and that outside of it are the other kind of straight people, the ones who actually watch those minstrels on TV and think they are learning something other than a reinforcement of a stereotype.

So what does this have to do with New Year’s Eve? Nothing; it’s just background.

I spent New Year’s this year with a fabulous bunch of people. Michelle decided to stay home because she hates the holiday and would rather pretend it didn’t exist. She especially hates the kind of New Year’s celebration that involves people getting all dressed up and lining up to get into the most fabulous place in town, so you can imagine why she really didn’t like the idea of joining me in ringing in 2011 at downtown hotspot Brassaii.

So I gathered a few other fine folk to join me in her place, including my date, a fabulous femme fatale defense attorney who doesn’t take it lightly when the dress code calls for fancy. She wore opera gloves. She looked like a smoky dame from a 1940s film noir. In other words, HAWT. I was pleased to have such a splendid woman on my arm, and worried that I might not actually be splendid enough myself to match her, but she didn’t complain.

We stopped for drinks at a friend’s beforehand, and then headed over to Brassaii at around 11:00. When we arrived, there was quite a line out front. I asked a woman in front of us if she already had tickets.

She fairly sneered as she replied, “Yes. We all have tickets.”

Okay then. So I texted Mikey, asking, “Do we really have to stand in this line?”

No sooner had I sent the text than my stunning gay boyfriend and VIP host extraordinaire materialised before me. “Well look who it is!” He called, and turned, saying, “Come on. Follow me.”

I smiled at the woman in front of me in line and let Mike lead our entourage past the crowd and through the gates, the bouncers waving us through at his signal. My friends, who had never had the Chalut treatment before, were significantly impressed. I say, if you’re gonna look like movie stars, you may as well go somewhere where they treat you like one. That’s the reason I keep going back to this place.

Mikey offered us a schwackload of drink tickets, and gave my friends a tour of the place. Inside, it was chaos. Wall-to-wall people, dressed to the nines and moving to the music. We had to work to keep our group together.

Thankfully, it was an unseasonably warm New Year’s Eve, so we got our drinks and headed back out to the patio, where it was a bit easier to breathe. By this time it was near midnight already, so we started our countdown. When the clock struck twelve, we all kissed.

Let me tell you about this kiss for a second, because you have to understand that I am in a committed relationship with someone who just didn’t happen to come out that night. So I kissed my date, and while it wasn’t, I suppose, your straight up, sanitized friend-peck that makes more of a sound than it does a tactile impact, we certainly weren’t sticking our tongues down each other’s throats, either. There was some mild lip intermingling, that’s all. Nothing inappropriate for the sort of friends we are.

But of course, and here is where that background bit about the straight people and the other straight people comes in, as soon as our lips began to intemingle, some douchebag behind me nudged his friend and started bellowing, “Hey, yeah! Girls kissing!” I half-expected him to start beating his chest.

My film noir dame made an eloquent comment about how straight men assume that all displays of affection are made specifically for their entertainment, but all I could come up with was, “Oh my god, the douchebags are out.”

See, this is what I mean about forgetting about those straight people. I hang out with straight folks all the time, and it would never occur to them to leer and/or cheer when my girlfriend and I shared a kiss. These guys were practically drooling. And I am not exactly the kind of gal who makes men drool on a regular basis. It was all about the lez factor.

At any rate, they didn’t seem to like being called “the douchebags,” and took their cue to leave us alone, which was refreshing. We went on with our night and our drinks, until the inevitable moment when someone had to make their way through the crowd to find the bathroom. I let her go without me, but within a few minutes found that the power of suggestion had taken over and I was bound to follow.

If there is one thing I like less than being drooled over by straight guys, it is using the bathroom in a straight bar. I’m a butch dyke. I have been redirected on more than one occasion. I have engaged in some inappropriate behaviours to make my points known about gender…also on more than one occasion.

But biology is biology, and when you have to go, you have to go. My friend and I forged a path through the swarm and into the back bathroom. I saw one or two eyes do a second take at my entrance, but nothing was said. Phew!

However, as I was closing the stall door, I heard someone say, “Hey! Loosen up! Open your mind!” Being fully self-absorbed, I assumed it was a reference to me. It wasn’t, as I was to find out.

When I finished, my friend, who had seen me enter, was waiting for me. She told me that while she had been waiting for me to come out, some girls started dancing seductively together at the precise moment that she had happened to glance over at them. It was to her that those words were directed. And she just shrugged, saying, “Doesn’t bother me!”

Ha! If those women had any clue the kinds of kinks that this particular friend was into, they would probably be asking her not to be quite so openminded as she is. What can I tell you? She’s a dirty, dirty girl.

It’s just weird to me to be around people who think that two women dancing together would be something to raise an eyebrow at, although I am not so far removed from that context that I can’t remember what it was like to be so defensive about it. It’s just been quite some time since I was in that place, and to return to it was something of a head-shaker, like looking at a photo album and realising you grew up in Bizarroland.

Or maybe I live in Bizarroland now, I don’t know.

When we got back from the bathroom, the bunch of us decided it was time to head out of the straight playground and forage for some food. Poutine, to be specific. Brassaii had treated us well for the night, but now it was time to start a New Year off right—with greasy, fried food, topped with improbably delicious fixings.

2011 is looking to be a good year so far.

So I’m helping Mike Chalut write an article for release, and at the same time I am writing a commercial for Brassaii, so Mikey invited me out to the club on Thursday to meet the owners. The management there is just awesome—really professional, and really enthusiastic about letting me take a less traditional creative approach with their spot, which is cool.

So I finished that meeting and went through the points for Mike’s article, and then it was time to drink. Mike’s friend showed up, a Russian-Canadian who happens to be the CEO of a major fashion label’s distribution in Canada. Let’s call her Katia. It’s a good Russian-sounding name, more figure skater than spy, I think, and it doesn’t resemble this woman’s real name at all.

So let me give you a bit of background on Katia. She is in her mid-40s but looks older, and she speaks with the voice of a woman who has been smoking two packs a day since her eleventh birthday. And I don’t know if it is because I have never actually seen her straight and sober, or if she just moves that way on a day-to-day basis, but she kind of twitches and wobbles and gestures about—she never really seems to stand still for a second.

The first time I met Katia was at that gin-to-the-ditch staff party, also at Brassaii. That night, she and I were having a conversation about something, I forget what, but I remember I was prospecting her a bit for freelance opportunities, given her position with such a well-known and high end fashion label.

So she mentioned that night that she was 45, and I lied that I would have guessed she was under 40. What? I am not above using flattery to land a job! It doesn’t hurt anyone. Anyway, she was flattered, and indeed did mention something about getting me to do some vague work for her in the indefinite future.

Later in the evening, Mikey was explaining to her how he and I became friends, and he said that we were the same age. She pshawed at me, and said, “The same age? Please! You’re 45.”

Mikey, who had enjoyed one or two drinks by this point and is even in sobriety my chivalrous gay boyfriend, leapt to my defense: “You can’t talk to her like that! Why would you say something like that?”

Katia shook her head and croaked between drags of her ever-present cigarette, “Oh no! I forgot! I’m 45!” And then she coughed out a burst of laughter and lit another one.

Mike was still offended on my behalf, and I tried to explain, but there was just too much vodka and gin between us for any of it to make sense.

This past Thursday night, however, when Katia joined us, we were all getting along swimmingly. She ate her dinner and seemed genuinely flattered that we would invite her to join us on the patio. Another friend of Mike’s, also a Russian-Canadian, but younger than I—let’s call her Natasha—joined us under the torches. She had just gone through some difficulty with a co-worker who seemed bent on sabotaging her career, and we bonded over being nice little fishies swimming in an industry often swarming with sharks.

Somewhere during this conversation Katia became bored and began to kick Mikey’s ankle like a petulant 7-year-old, saying something that sounded to me like “Bubs! Bubs!”

Now, “Bubs” is a pet name that Mikey uses for nearly everyone, from his new BFF of the week to strangers with whom he accidentally collides on the street. I witnessed one such collision once and felt immediately less special when I heard him apologize to the man using the same nickname I had believed was reserved especially for me. But I digress.

After a period, Katia became bored of kicking Mike and finally decided to leave in something of a huff. I didn’t get what was going on until Mikey explained. She had been saying, “Bumps! I want bumps!”

As in bumps of coke. Silly me.

Mike had responded as subtly as he could while still getting the point across, “There are no bumps here, Katia. Go home.” So she did.

I laughed at how innocent I had been about the whole scene. Apparently everyone else at the table knew exactly what was going on. It only made me seem even more like la virgen de pueblo when a few random strangers showed up at our table and offered to share their joint with us.

When I refused, Natasha looked at me, suddenly concerned and a bit embarrassed, and asked me, “Are you Straightedge?”

I looked down at the seventh—or was it eighth at that point?—gin and tonic in my hand, and replied, “Uh…no.”

Natasha looked relieved and continued to treat me like her BFF.

By the end of the night I had two new projects underway and had made a friend in the industry, but I don’t think I’ll be getting any work from that fashion label any time soon.

Last night the staff of the Little Queer Station That Could were treated to a night of food, drink, and debauchery at Brassaii. As the Sales manager put it, this place is the ultimate see-and-be-seen place on King Street.

So, like, not my usual cup of tea at all.

However, where there are free snacks, good friends, and all of the gin I can handle to be enjoyed—did I mention it was free?—I will go. When I arrived, Mikey pulled me into an embrace and whispered in my ear, “Isn’t it great how this night is really about you and me?”

I laughed. I love it when he makes me feel like I’m the only girl in the world.

Sorry, that’s Mike’s new favourite song of the year.

So we got bottle service, gin and vodka. I was one of the only gin drinkers, and let me tell you, I worked hard at that bottle, but the night drew on and I was already stumbling when many of my fellow ginnies were leaving. I was just thinking that I might like to take off, as well, given my somewhat intoxicated state, when L— The Hot Server came up to me, waving the still-one-third-full bottle of Tanqueray at me.

Hi there! Remember me?

“Stark! I see that there is still some gin in here! What are you going to do about it?”

Clearly she wasn’t worried about her personal liability for overserving.

I replied back to her, quite passionately, “I will finish that gin for you, L—!”

And I did.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur.

As TIFF continues on, I have been at the receiving end of a few invitations to post-film parties. It both tickles me and annoys me that I couldn’t get tickets to any of the films I wanted to see, but I can still gain access to these VIP parties.

Last night the big shindig was a party for Uma Thurman at Brassaii. I was like, Uma Thurman party? Count me in. I have been starstruck by her since I saw her sporting those ridiculous prosthetic thumbs in the horrible Hollywood adaptation of Even Cowgirls get the Blues.

Mikey was like, “Show up at around 9, before the crowd sets in, we’ll take some photos on the red carpet, and we’ll go in. Done!”

So Michelle and I proceeded to get ourselves dolled up for Uma and for Brassaii. I had not yet been to this club, but had been assured that it was “the place to be” by a number of higher-ups at the radio station. In fact, earlier this summer I recall one of my coworkers making a sidelong remark to another coworker that this club was not really the kind of place where one of the butchier dykes at the station would fit in. I believe the exact words were, “Brassaii isn’t exactly a [Butchdyke] kind of place,” followed by some derisive laughter.

As something of a butch myself, I thus felt both vindicated and maliciously pleased when Mike very plainly and publicly offered to me and me alone his invitation to this TIFF party, right in front of the very person who had made that remark. Take that, exclusionist! Fine, I was feeling a bit exclusive myself, but at least I based my elitism on not being a snob, rather than fitting into some heteronormative ideal of beauty. *ahem*

Anyway, so as we were leaving the house, I got an urgent text from Mikey: “Babe, meet me at the corner of King and Spadina and I will let you in. Security’s being a bitch.”

So we went to King and Spadina and met up with Mikey, who was looking very fetching in his black-on-black, if a bit stressed out. He led us not to the front door of Brassaii, as I would have expected, but along Spadina to an alley behind the King Street businesses. As he strode along, seemingly effortlessly picking past the stashes of garbage strewn throughout the alley, he explained that Uma’s publicist was something of a…handful, let’s say. She was throwing Hollywood agents out of their own party, and security was instructed not to let anyone in, even those who had been invited to the event. It was a bit out of hand. He would explain more later, but for the time being, he parked us outside the fence separating the alley from the Brassaii patio.

There we crouched quietly in our fancy pants and suit jackets until Mikey appeared on the opposite side of the fence to let us in through a discreet gate that led in behind the patio bar. We just sneaked into a TIFF party through a back alley. Good times.

I soon learned why Mikey had been so stressed. Uma Thurman’s party was inside the restaurant portion of the building, closed off by a sheer white curtain from the irritated milieu of media folk who had been invited to the event only to be kept outside of it. Apparently nobody is permitted to see Uma eat. The patio was full of disgruntled agents, screenwriters and assorted media personnel in dark blue jeans with black turtlenecks and blazers. One agent complained that she had been thrown out of her own party by Uma Thurman’s publicist.

Apparently the publicist had also called Brassaii about a half an hour in advance of their arrival to demand Mexican food for her charge, although there is no Mexican food on Brassaii’s menu. The publicist, however, was adamant—Uma Thurman, it turns out, is on a Mexican-only diet. That’s a new one for me. I do appreciate a good burrito, though. There’s a Z-Teca down the street, if you want. I am pretty sure Brassaii ordered the food in from somewhere else, though.

The bar had been bought out for the entire week by a certain online social media company, which had hired camera people to film the events for its website. Those camera people were also ousted from the goings on inside the place, even when invited to shoot by guests at the party. This seemed an especially unfortunate choice, because the film hasn’t been picked up yet and doesn’t even have a trailer. In fact, of all of the people I met at this party, nobody even knew the exact title of the film—so one might think that a little bit of publicity on one of the most pervasive social media networks would be welcomed. But…no.

On the glamorous side of things, there were certainly quite a few notable names about. I saw Jason Reitman grabbing some air and texting on the patio. The ousted agent chatted him up for some time, possibly in hopes of regaining access to her party.

Henry Winkler, whose son directed the film, was also there, and let me tell you, the Fonze is no diva. In fact, he was inviting people to take photos with him while he waited for his son to get his coat. Security, of course, nixed the photos, so I didn’t get to pose with him. The best I can offer is this:

‘Eeeeeeyyyyyy. Total highlight of the night. Well, that and the open bar.

Finally, there was a buzz among the media milieu. “She’s coming! Here she comes!” And so, feigning our best Toronto ennui, we banished partygoers sipped at our gins-and-tonics and cut our eyes as though only mildly interested at the Hollywood royalty passing us: Uma Thurman gliding by, escorted by that notorious publicist and an entourage of agents, security burlies, and assistants, with the flash of a pink scarf and that face that stops you and makes you think that the five seconds that it took for her to traverse the length of the patio lasted at least five minutes. She’s just so very, very pretty. It kinda makes the diva antics of an over-protective publicist worth the trouble.

Not enough trouble for me to repeat the process for the Keanu Reeves party tonight, though. I had my TIFF experience, and I think I’ll sit the next one out.

September is film festival time in Toronto and every nightclub wants to be the IT place for celebrities. Mike Chalut, my constant host to the city, has informed me that I am to spend my week at his parties. Who am I to argue with such a charming host?

So last night, Michelle and I had Acey, Mike’s afternoon show co-host, and her girlfriend over for drinks and snacks before we all headed out to Maison, which is holding its grand opening during TIFF. Mike had equipped us all with nifty little cards that gave us access to the place, but we didn’t actually need them, because he was there waiting for us on the red carpet when we arrived. He ushered us in, making a show of pulling us through the crowd lined up outside. It was all very Studio 54.

Having been a person passed over for prettier, more scanitly-clad women in the crowd myself, I am not really sure how I feel about the whole exclusive club experience, to be honest. I don’t really get why anyone would line up around the block to get into Maison, or any place, for that matter, when there will inevitably be another watering/dancing hole a half block down the street anyway. But hey, the drinks were free and I had good people with me, so I didn’t think too much on it.

Inside was a mishmash of style without context. There were classical mouldings along the walls and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but that more traditional décor was paired with modern minimalist white boxes for speakers and bars. There were random things like shoes hanging along the walls, and disco balls punctuating the place. It was very odd. The music was uptempo dance and Top 40, accentuated by these massive LED screens showing the most ridiculous videos, such as a porn-fantasy version of women in prison pressing themselves against the bars for a dancing dominatrix prison guard. I cracked up.

Watching the crowd made for an interesting ethnographic study in the mating habits of straight people. Next to us was a group of men with a couple of women. One of the women, whom I will call Leatherpants for the purposes of this story, was the object of desire of every man in the group. One by one, the menfolk engaged in some sort of demonstration of their masculinity in hopes of impressing her. Some of them danced, some brought her mounds of drinks, some lifted things, and some wrestled with each other for her amusement. Leatherpants was blitzed drunk and enjoyed every one of their demonstrations, without returning any advances.

In the meantime, the other woman, whom I will call OtherWoman, was trying desperately to win some attention away from Leatherpants. She pulled on the arms of the men, downed shot after shot with them, and even climbed up on a table and danced seductively until a bouncer came over and pulled her back to ground level. At one point she finally managed to nab herself a dance partner. Leatherpants saw people dancing and seemed to think it looked like fun, so she joined them, at which point, of course, OtherWoman’s hard-won catch deserted her for the more coveted prospect.

I found myself wondering how these arbitrary decisions on attraction were made. Both women were pretty, and both seemed quite pleased with the company. If it was about sex, OtherWoman seemed very willing and eligible, so why were the men all drawn to Leatherpants? Further study would be required in order to answer that question.

But as it was, my drink tickets had run out and I decided to call it a night. At one point I saw Mike, who had been running around making sure the party was pumping all night, and he reported to me that Ed Norton was supposedly on his way over, but I didn’t stick around to find out if he made it that far.

In general, Maison isn’t really my kind of place. It’s just a bit too straight for me. But despite that, I had a surprisingly good time just dancing and people-watching. I had my Studio 54 moment and it was pretty fun.

Let me introduce you to my friend Mike Chalut. He’s something of a personality in Toronto, having been the co-star of a few TV shows in the past, including Wedding SOS and Kim’s Rude Awakenings, and also hosting some of Toronto’s more upscale parties in stylish downtown hotspots like Ultra Supper Club, Brassai, the not-quite-fully-opened-yet Maison, and the place we went to last night, MoRoCo.

Mikey came into my life a couple of months ago during a day soon after I had quit smoking and was foraging around the radio station, demanding that the sales reps bring me chocolate to get me through the cravings. Mike was in the studio and miraculously had chocolate available, just for me! It was not just any chocolate, either; it was some of the most delicious chocolate I had ever eaten! I almost regretted having to waste such a delicacy on a nic fit. Mike told me that the chocolate came from his place, MoRoCo.

At that time, we had a number of interviews on the station with clients of local businesses, so I figured he owned some sort of chocolate shop. Thus, I was mildly confused when I saw him again at the station a few days later, and then again the day after that. Every time he hugged me and said hello and remembered my name, and every time I wondered vaguely, “Why is the chocolate guy here again?”

Then one day it occurred to me that he was not in fact the chocolate guy; he was the new afternoon host! Colour me surprised. Soon after this revelation came a second: Mike the chocolate guy/new afternoon host just loves me.

He came bursting into my work area one day with a pained look on his face and invited me downstairs so that he could smoke a cigarette and talk to me alone. He had just been through a stressful meeting with a journalist for a local newspaper. What Mike had thought was going to be a friendly interview turned out to be an ambush, the journalist attacking him for events that had happened at the radio station before he was hired.

However, in his own very positive way, Mike had simply answered the questions with bright optimism and cheer. The journalist at one point said to him, "I don't believe that you are actually this happy. It's impossible. I am going to break you." But he was unable to do so. Mike really is that positive. It drives people around him nuts.

So he stood smoking and telling me this story, asking my advice on how he should proceed. I gave him my opinion, and he told me that he had known that I would be the person to talk to, because we have a special connection. I thought to myself, "Until last week, I thought you were the chocolate guy!" But I kept my thoughts to myself, because the truth is, his admiration is infectious and I found myself kinda loving him, too.

In the time since that happened, we have become very close friends at work. We're around the same age and we just seem to get each other. He has been inviting me to come to his clubs for weeks now, so last night I decided to check out MoRoCo. Mike works there on Fridays. Basically his job is to make sure the place is packed and happening.

MoRoCo is this chocolate lounge in Yorkville, one of Toronto's more upscale neighbourhoods. The menu is packed with delicious choices, from decadent éclairs and brownies to savoury cheeses and sandwiches. Plus a whole roster of drinks to choose from. I had only ever walked by the place before; the average price of a drink there is $20---a bit more than I am willing to spend.

But the Mike Chalut VIP treatment makes that all moot. In the afternoon when he invited me out, he said, "When you're with me, you never pay for drinks!" He wasn't lying. Michelle and I walked into the place, and the first thing the woman at the counter did was to give us a "tour of the place." Which is to say, she pulled out a selection of several truffles and macarons for us to try, explaining each one as we tasted. Mike poured us each a shot of sipping chocolate, and I was very soon vibrating like a small child the day after Halloween.

We sat out on the patio and ordered frozen sangria. It was nothing like what I would call sangria, but I didn't care. It was delicious! We sipped on those, talked about work, ordered another round, and then another, at which point Mike told me about his great heartbreak in life, and then we had another frozen sangria, and then we worked out a plan for world domination. It was great!

By this time I was feeling pretty drunk and Mike decided that the answer was more chocolate, so he ordered us the Holy Trinity of chocolate fondue---white, dark and milk chocolate with a platter of fruit and pastries. Oh my lord, cue the angels singing. I have just found religion!

It was around this point that Chalut hit what he likes to call “the ditch.” He was done with MoRoCo and wanted to head to the gay village. The three of us tipped our lovely waitress and stumbled out, catching a cab for a distance I would normally have walked in about ten minutes.

At Church and Wellesley, the level of Mike’s fame was made apparent to me. As we walked down the street, I could hear people calling to him from across the street, from the patios, from all directions, “Chalut! Chalut!” I felt like I was part of some exclusive entourage. We walked into another bar and people just handed us free drinks. Apparently people know this Mike fellow. And here I was all along, thinking he was the chocolate guy.

Three bars later, Michelle and I were done. Mike, being firmly entrenched in the ditch, wanted us to stay, but it was a go-now-or-barf situation. We poured ourselves into a cab and left Mike with a new friend on the corner of Church and Wellesley.

This morning, I awoke to see a new text from Mikey, telling me that he had invited half of Church Street back to his condo for a party after we left. That ditch of his runs deep. I also found the following status posted on my Facebook wall:

Sharkskin karl lagerfelds yes.

I am still trying to determine what I meant by that.

I have had a tendency from time to time to complain about my job. Most people do it, right? We’re all underpaid and overworked and don’t get the respect we deserve, yadda yadda. But for all of my complaining, I do get to enjoy some pretty nifty perks. Such as, for example, my Priority Pass to the North by Northeast (NXNE) festival. It’s no SXSW, but it’s what we’ve got.

A Priority Pass is just fancy talk for a pass that let me skip the lineups, but it did get me into all of the gigs I wanted, and it just kinda looks fancy. I am all about looking fancy.

I would like to say that I was awarded this pass because I am a highly honoured and respected member of the radio station for which I work, but the truth is there was only one pass and I was the only person who was both interested in NXNE and flying solo this weekend, as my partner left town for the week. Thank you, Michelle, for going to New York without me. No, really! My weekend of bachelorhood was every bit as much fun as I imagine I would have had had I joined you.

So the first place I went to was the Dakota Tavern, a little basement country and blues bar that I have never seen before. I missed the first band, but the second one, First Rate People, really was first rate–boppy and fun, with a nice mix of male and female vocals. The girl on drums was really banging it out.

Then there was some really loud band from Alberta called Ghostkeeper, and they looked like Alberta, complete with farmer caps and hipster beards. The lead singer was hot, though. He was Métis and said he was putting the “Indian” in Indie rock. They also had a female drummer. I thought maybe this was a female drummer night, but the first band was comprised only of men, so I guess it was just a coincidence. This drummer also sang some of the songs, but here is the problem with coed singing bands at small music festivals: the sound checks are all done by the guys and the bass levels are so high that you can barely hear the women’s voices. So I didn’t really like Ghostkeeper much. They weren’t horrible, but their MySpace page sounds nicer than they do live in a tiny bar. Let me be old for a moment: they were too loud.

Then came the band I was waiting to see, The Pack A.D., comprised of drummer Maya Miller and guitarist/singer Becky Black. These chicks really rock out. Seriously, I had such an awesome time, I was losing my shit. I found myself dancing and cheering like a tween fangirl. I think I may have swooned. Day 1: success!

Day 2 was significantly less thrilling. I went to the Velvet Underground, a once-popular and now kind of divey goth bar. Who knew goth bars could still fly in Toronto? The first two bands were regrettable.

The lead singer of The Scarlet Fever wished really hard that he could have been some sort of cross between David Bowie and Siouxsie Sioux. I thought he was a girl until he stopped singing and began to speak in a faux-Brit accent (he’s from Toronto). He liked to drape himself over the speakers in his leather corset and feathers, looking dramatically heavenward, before leaping into the near-empty dance floor to fondle the faces of the two or three women who stood listening to him there. His singing was atrocious but he was nonetheless entertaining in a wholly unintentional way. I laughed out loud, but genuinely enjoyed the floor show. Amazing.

From would-be Siouxsie Bowie, the show continued with the Wannabe-Henry-Rollins-Band, a.k.a. The Torrent. Let me share with you a sample of their lyrics:

There’s a taste in my mouth and it tastes like you.
There’s a taste in my mouth and it tastes like you.
There’s a taste in my mouth and it tastes like you.
I wanna spit it out and find someone new.
What’s new, pussycat?

No joke. I think that pretty much says it all. Thank goodness there was a city-wide power outage in the middle of their set.

The power came back on, and finally it was time for the act I had come to see: People You Know. One of the former interns at my radio station is the drummer. Apparently hot chick drummers have really been a theme of my NXNE experience this year. Anyway, these girls really made the night worthwhile. The lead singer/guitarist, Aimee Bessada, and the bassist, Devon Clarke, have some serious rockstar moves—I think they practice in the mirror. They really use the medium; they roll and jump all over the stage, and they splay themselves over the speakers. They really have invested some time in cultivating a stage presence. Totally entertaining. I had a great time.

At the end of the show, they gave me a free demo—old school, just some little burned disc with the band name scrawled on it with a Sharpie. It’s the 2000s version of a mixtape. There are only three songs on it, but they are three solid songs. I look forward to a real release from these girls.

I deliberated over what to do Saturday, whether I should check out some more indie bands or go to Dundas Square to see Iggy and the Stooges play before they finally wasted away. I do love Iggy Pop, but I thought maybe he might better be left to my imagination. I remembered how I had longed to see Bowie my entire life, and then I finally got the chance to do so about five or six years ago and he was a great disappointment. In the end, however, I decided to risk it and headed down to the square with a couple of friends.

What a bad idea! The square was open and free to the public, with no set capacity, so the place ended up getting so crowded that my friends and I had to get the fuck out of the sardine tin. There were douchebags all around, guys ripping their shirts off and drinking Jack Daniels out of–get this–a can. Who knew that even existed? It would be one thing if this were a mosh pit full of punks, but most of the people around us had never actually heard of Iggy Pop.

I did get to see the Raveonettes, whose feedback addiction actually sounds much better in a live, outdoor setting. However, their stage show was incredibly boring. I really find it annoying when a band has a whole entire stage but they just stand there and play their instruments without so much as a bob of the head. Take a lesson from People You Know, folks!

I also survived the suffocating crowd long enough to see old Iggy rock out to “Raw Power” before violence breaking out right in front of us forced us to get the fuck out of dodge before we got trampled. Getting out of the crowd was almost as difficult as it would have been to try to get in. Iggy was still full of energy and looking really awesome, when I could peek at him through the ever-thickening crowd of taller people than I. He was pretty funny, too. He said, “We are what remains of the Stooges. And you get to see us before we die!” I was happy he said that because then I didn’t feel so bad about having thought the same thing all day.

Let me tell you, I practically grew up in a mosh pit, but this was insane. First, it was clear that most of the people crowding the stage weren’t even into punk, or Iggy Pop, for that matter. They didn’t recognize the music or even seem to be enjoying themselves. What they were doing was acting the way I guess they thought one should act at a punk concert: drinking too much and starting fights. It was a real disappointment.

When finally we made it back to the thinner area at the back of the square, we saw the real punks, not fighting, just slam-dancing and having a grand old time even though there was nothing you could see from back there. Having bruised ourselves enough for one night, we all decided to head back to my friend’s place a few blocks away and drink beer on the balcony. Which was more fun than watching Iggy Pop.

All in all, though, I had a great time at NXNE this year. I got to see some new bands, appreciate some old ones I already liked, and even got a bunch of free swag—and bruises—out of the weekend. I do love free stuff.

Let’s see, we’ve got a couple of CDs, a download card for some music site, a foldable pocket map of Toronto, some earbuds, 3D glasses, the swag bag itself, which is pretty nifty looking, some ear plugs, stickers that I can put on my seldom-used-anymore guitar case, a button, a CN Tower coupon, a guitar pick that says “Rock Shrink” (my dream job…or possibly nightmare job), some bathroom reading, and a gift certificate of some sort to a sticker/t-shirt/paraphernalia store I would probably really love if I were a rockstar.

I would say I made out like a bandit. Not a bad way to spend a bachelor’s weekend in Toronto.