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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.