Last year Michelle and I were fortunate enough to acquire tickets to the Beer Festival, which was almost every bit as awesome as a festival designed around one of the nectars of the gods ought to be, except… Well the thing about this particular godly nectar is that it attracts a lot of flies. And by flies I mean frat boys. Or guys that aspire to be frat boys, or guys that once were frat boys and choose to relive their glory days by worshipping the gods of beer.

So while I was able to taste some fantastic local microbrews and international beers, and I even tried mead for the first time, the event was somewhat sullied by the dudes in backwards baseball caps crowding in hordes around any available female in the joint, braying and stumbling over each other like Keystone cops, vying for her attention.

And when they weren’t trying to get the attention of an available female, they were trying to get each other’s attention by insutling each other, making the kind of nasty comments you would expect from a horde of frat boys about anyone to whom they were *not* attracted. It was really douchey, for lack of a better word. Thus, after a few samples of mead, Michelle and I took to photobombing the douchebags. It was self-made entertainment at its best.

Thankfully we didn’t have to come up with our own entertainment this year. The fine folks at the Beer Festival came up with a fantastic solution to the frat boy scenario: the Queer Beer Festival!

While I am sure that there are queers of the frat boy variety—we do come in all styles and colours, after all—I am pleased to report that no one particular sort of queer seemed to dominate this event. The crowd was delightfully diverse and generally a whole lot of fun. And the event helped to support one of my favourite local community organizations, donating money to the 519 with every advance ticket sold.

The festival organizers sent a bunch of VIP passes to The Little Queer Radio Station That Could, so I was able to bring a small group of Hot Dates to enjoy the sudsy spectacle with me. We had access to the VIP Lounge, where we enjoyed a couple of pints of beer on the house and tasted from flights of food from the kitchen.

On the food, I should note with a bit of disappointment that there was nothing—not a bite—of the vegetarian variety. There were sausages on rolls and little battered and fried links on sticks, chicken wings and ribs, but not so much as a carrot stick with which to cleanse a carnivorous palate. I think that maybe the stereotype of the beer drinker is exactly the caricature of the frat boy that so dominates the general-population variation of this festival—meat-eating, loud-talking, beer-guzzling, backward-baseball-cap-wearing, sexually-harassing gorilla-man.

This is not to say that all carnivores are gorillas—in fact, to say so would be incredibly misleading, as gorillas are primarily herbivorous, but I digress—but that organizers of events such as this have become accustomed to a certain kind of crowd with a certain kind of appetite, and as this was the inaugural queer-focused event associated with the Beer Festival, I doubt it occurred to them that the queer population would show any stronger inclination toward the humble vegetable.

I was incredibly hungry, however, and didn’t want to get myself drunk before even having a chance to sample from the multiple microbreweries displaying their craft outside, so I mooned about pathetically, even begging one of the servers to bring me a roll without the sausage in it just to tide me over, until finally someone brought me a plate of four tiny veggie sandwiches and told me, “This is all yours, and it’s all you get, so don’t tell anyone.” Of course I couldn’t hold to that. I am a generous person by nature and my first instinct was to share this food with the other vegetarian I knew in the joint. However, on my way to find her, I ran into two other hungry veggies, both partners of my coworkers, so I shared with them, too, and in the end, I was left with just one tiny little dinner roll with a bit of shredded cabbage and some cheese. It was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten at that famished moment.

To her credit, the chef did eventually bring out vegetarian fare. She in fact went home to her garden, pulled out a couple of cucumbers, and sliced them up with some cheese to make some more dinner rolls. She seemed almost ashamed to offer such low cuisine, but let’s face it—the carnivores were eating what amounted to be miniature corn dogs. It’s the Beer Festival; it’s not exactly gourmet.

After we had lubricated our senses in the VIP Lounge, we went outside to explore the different beers on offer. I love discovering new local micros, myself, although there were some international beers on offer as well. One of my favourite discoveries from last year was back again: Flying Monkeys. I went to reacquaint myself with their Hoptical Illusion, the beer with which I fell in love last year, and then went on to try a hoppier IPA called Smashbomb, which was apparently not available in stores until very recently because its label had a cartoon mushroom cloud on it.

Yeah. That’s so scary. If I saw that in the LCBO I would tremble in fear. Please. Anyway, it was super-hoppy and I liked it a lot, but I still prefer Hoptical Illusion. Yum. I tried various other beers, wheat ales and stouts, and even had myself a dark ale ice cream float from Rickard’s, but in the end I came back to Flying Monkeys to use up the last of my tasting tokens. It was a successful beer-tasting night.

But the best part in terms of entertainment was that with so many fun and un-fratly queers hanging around us, Michelle and I did not have to resort to photobombing douchebags for entertainment, which meant that we could direct our attention to the headlining act: Ace of Base!

Well, kind of Ace of Base, anyway. The guys are the same, but the women have been replaced by a couple of girls I am pretty convinced were still in zygote stage when “All That She Wants” was released. It was…odd. Ace of Base 2.0. Apparently the lineup change happened because the original women had discovered Jesus and didn’t want to be rockstars anymore, or something, I don’t really know. I heard it through the Queer Beer grapevine, which had about ten samples of beer filtering it before it reached my ears. I could be passing on some misinformation.

What I do know is that, all oddness of the new lineup aside, the show was highly entertaining, particularly because there were these two hilarious backup dancers who looked like clones of my good pal Mike Chalut. In fact when the first one showed up on stage, I thought it was Mike Chalut. And then he seemed to replicate himself, and although I do believe that Chalut has some special powers, I am pretty sure that that isn’t one of them. These dancers made the show. They were high energy geek-bots with pretty, pretty man-chests. It was like the Hot Nerds Club. I found myself imitating their dance moves just because they were so dorky. And I do love dorks.

At the end of the show we went back to the VIP Lounge for our last free beer, but the park was closing up soon, so we decided to get moseying out. Looking around at all of the tipsy, flirting homos, boys holding hands and hot girls making out, I was struck with the difference between the frustration I remembered feeling at the end of the night last year and the contentment I was feeling watching my people around me now. Queer Beer Fest. It’s so much better than photobombing frat boys.

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.

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.

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.

I went to see Florence + the Machine live at the Sound Academy here in Toronto. A year or so ago, Michelle and another friend and I went to see Regina Spektor at that venue and swore we would never return. Not only is it on the Polson Pier, in the middle of an industrial wasteland, but it is badly designed and the sound is shit. We ended up behind a planter at the back of the room.

However, for some reason, that shitty Sound Academy seems to rope in some of my favourite performers, and there are some gigs to which I just cannot say no. For example, there was just no way I was going to miss seeing Hole perform. I missed them the first time around and I certainly wasn’t going to repeat that mistake. And the Hole concert ended up being so great, mosh pit black eyes and all, that for a moment I forgot my resolution and began to believe that the Sound Academy wasn’t so bad after all.

So when my friend in the promo department at work re-appropriated a couple of tickets to the Florence show, I was all over it. Michelle got a cheap ticket through the beat-the-box-office deal so she could join us. I booked the company vehicle, because transit to get to the Polson Pier is sketchy at best. Parking ended up costing almost as much as Michelle’s ticket. Strike one, Sound Academy.

Remembering our earlier experience with the Regina concert, we left early enough to ensure a spot in the crowd close enough to see the band. This also meant that we had to spend some time in line outside in the freezing rain before the doors opened, but no problem; we were still excited. We got in, checked our coats (another 3 bucks—strike two!), and made our way into the crowd, securing a decent spot.

During the hour between doors and the opening act, the crowds thickened, but we held our ground. It was an all-ages event, so the high-schoolers were cramming in and trying to find ways to slip through to the front. Some kids behind us made excuses about how they had been up front already and just went to the bathroom, and I was like, too bad, kiddos; if you want to hold your spots, you have to hold your water. Some other girl was like, “Seriously? You’re like, too tall.” And I was like, girly, it’s general admission. Get used to it. Am I cruel? Whatever. If I had let every shorty in front of me, I would have been at the back again, and I was not about to relive the Regina Spektor debacle, dammit!

So anyway, finally the first act started. They were terrible. Just a singer/guitarist and a drummer, and a song about the city being made of garbage. This garbage city was also gendered (female, of course) and the singer’s lover. What a tool. They droned on for awhile, and then the singer said that they had to go to another gig. Michelle remarked that their other gig was in his mom’s basement. Truth.

We awaited Florence with much anticipation. Roadies came and went; the crowd was abuzz. We had already been standing in our spots being crowded and pushed by teenagers for two hours. Then my promo friend noticed that there were two drum sets on the stage—one in back that said “Florence + the Machine” on it, and another set in front of it. With great disappointment we came to the realization that there would be a second opening act.

These kids seemed at first like they were going to be better than the first act, but upon longer reflection (and they played for nearly an hour, so there was a lot of time to spend reflecting), it became clear that they were actually worse. They were teenage shoegazers, the singer so young that he still looked like a pretty little girl. He clearly got by on his looks, because his voice was awful. You could hear from the progression of the backing music what the song was *supposed* to sound like, but what came out of his throat was something else entirely. They ripped all of their riffs from the Beatles, and the kid’s falsetto was just a hot mess of tone-deafness.

By the end of the second opening act, I wanted to leave. My legs hurt, my mood had been sullied, and I was ready to tear the intestines out of the teenyboppers jamming their purses and beers into my back. The roadies returned to the stage for an exaggeratedly long intermission between the acts, and Michelle turned to me and said, “Who does this Florence think she is—Madonna?” We were all feeling pretty peevish about the whole affair.

But then she appeared. Oh my. Oh my my my my my. Florence Welch is sooooooo prettttty. When she started to dance, suddenly all of our anger melted away. Even my gay promo boy was in lust with her. And she really did put on a great show.

Florence + the Machine really has a different sort of sound, somewhere between pop and goth and something just kind of weird. The lyrics to some songs make me feel kind of dirty for liking them, like “Girl with One Eye” (my favourite) or “Kiss with a Fist” (Michelle’s favourite). Others just have a really cool flow. It is clear that “The Machine” really is a collaboration of musicians working to enhance the sound and theatrics of her voice.

The teenagers were all about the Twilight connection, though. Apparently the Eclipse soundtrack includes a Florence tune, and she is pretty gothy with her black lace onesie and midnight-ballerina dance moves, so the live-free-or-Twi-hard crew just lurrrrve her. Plus, another song mentions being stuck “always in this twilight”—yeah, they totally screamed every time she sang that line.

Further into the show she started to play the songs for which she is better known, the dance-infused tunes that I can’t exactly call hits, but you might know them if you heard them.

All in all, I would say that the Florence + the Machine portion of the night got an easy 9/10 for performance and fun, but with the two crap openers and the absurd amount of time spent tuning instruments (strike three, Sound Academy!) in between acts, I would only give the entire night as a whole a 6. I might go see her play again, but never again at the Sound Academy. Consider me re-resolved.

Last night I went to see Margaret Cho, and had the good fortune to attend a meet-and-greet first. It was short, but sweet. There were about twenty-five people there, and only a half an hour in which to meet and greet before Ms. Cho would have to go backstage and prep for the show. As most of these things go, it was basically a chance to line up to get a quick photo and an autograph, but it beat watching Uma Thurman breeze by in a cloud of publicists, bodyguards, and hangers-on.

And I got a signed DVD out of the deal. Sadly, I had to pay for the drink.

So that was fun. The show, as one might expect, was hilarious. Good times were had. What more can I really say? Cho!