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.