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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I learned last night that rich people will spend money in exorbitant amounts on ridiculous things. It’s incredible, really.

I went with Michelle and a couple of other friends to Stems of Hope, a gala fundraiser for stem cell research to treat cerebral palsy and other children’s neurological disorders. The whole affair was black-tie, so I made sure to wear one. I dusted off the suit I bust out for my top-end job interviews and was pleased to find out that I still fit into it. We looked a pretty fancy bunch as we chucked our tokens into the subway turnstiles and headed down into our public transit limo tunnel.

Maybe it was that we were intimidating, all dressed so very nicely, or maybe it was just that we caught him on a bad day, or maybe he just had mental health and anger issues, but this guy at St. George Station nearly decked me as I was trying to get off the train. It was one of those situations that often arises on the TTC, where the trains were turning back at St. George for some obstruction on the track ahead, so everyone had to exit the train.

Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered on the St. George platform and were waiting to get on the cars. This guy decided he wanted to get on the train before allowing us to exit. I calmly said to him, “Dude.” I was going to say, “Dude, it will be easier if you let us off first before trying to get on the train,” but all I managed was, “Dude—” before he screamed, “YOU DUDE!” and shoved me so hard I actually left the ground and experienced flight for a few very interesting moments. It’s overrated.

So I said, “Seriously?” and stepped around him, departing the train.

He turned and said, “YOU SERIOUSLY! FUCK YOU!” And then he made as though to try to punch me.

Thankfully, my Fairy Leather Daddy magically appeared to save the day. I don’t know where he came from, but he was big and burly and clad in motorcycle gear, and he placed a simple arm across the man’s chest, stopping his advance. Speaking very calmly, Fairy Leather Daddy said to him, “Sir, you’re going to have to calm the fuck down. Now, let these people leave the train.”

Oh, thank you, Fairy Leather Daddy! I could use your assistance more often!

So we made our escape and headed down in our fancy clothes to the lakeshore venue for the gala.

Not even my most expensive job interview suit could compare to the snazzy duds surrounding us. I guess when you pay 300 bucks for a ticket to something you want to look swank. I made nice with the receptionist until she found my name on the guest list, and apparently my friendly disposition made an impression, because when she saw me milling about the silent auction area later, she smiled and said hello. I am comforted by the fact that I fit in more with the staff of these events than the patrons—although it does mean that I have to be careful that my attire doesn’t match theirs, or I may be asked for a refill on that vodka-and-soda and a new plate of skewers. It wouldn’t be the first time.

There was some alluring entertainment at this gala. An aerialist descended from the ceiling in fits and swirls of ribbon; a fire-bearer tossed lit batons around in a dance of heat and light; a group of dancers executed expertly choreographed routines. The food was tight, too—gourmet appetizers served in flights. The bartenders served up a stiff drink and the bar was open. I certainly wasn’t disappointed by the food and drink.

The appalling part of the evening was discovering what people with money will spend that money on. At the silent auction, things seemed pretty sane—the items I found less than thrilling seemed to be accompanied as expected by low bids or no bids at all. However, the live auction was a different story altogether.

Clearly finding treatments for neurological disorders in children is a very worthy cause, so I guess I shouldn’t pooh-pooh the fact that those who have were giving it up like candy for the auction items. But $5,000 for 15 minutes with Jean-Marc Généreux to learn some ballroom choreography and then perform it during the latter half of the auction for the rest of the party guests seemed a bit…much. And when I heard someone bid an amount that totalled over one and a half times my annual salary for a three-hour dinner date with one of hockey’s historic greats, Mario Lemieux, I was like, really?! My entire personal worth couldn’t pay for a date with a hockey has-been?!

As a Canadian, I am certain to be strung up for that last remark. I apologize.

When I arrived home, I found a little blue pill with the letter “V” engraved in it wedged in the treads of my shoe. Another worthy investment, that.

In the end, the gala raised over a half a million dollars for stem cell research, and I enjoyed some fantastic food, drink, and entertainment for free, so I can’t really complain. Hey, what’s a year and a half’s salary among friends?