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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

On Thursday night I decided to take my Michelle out on an early birthday date. It was both planned months in advance and totally last minute.

In November, I found out that our Little Queer Station That Could had picked up an ad client for the Toronto performances of Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo, more affectionately known as the Trocks. I was thrilled. I had heard of the Trocks through Michelle, who had seen them back when she still lived in New York and has been hoping for them to come to Toronto ever since.

Now here’s the thing about Michelle: she loves drag queens. I mean loves them. With a passion. Lots of italics. Once we went out to Crews and Tango on a Wednesday night after leaving halfway through a rather unfortunate advanced viewing of some avant-garde queer performance at Buddies in Bad Times. There was a drag queen in the back room who refused to perform until the crowd had thickened to her desired quantity, and Michelle could barely contain her adoration. When the righteously imperious queen finally began her performance, Michelle kept tipping her for requests. With my money, I might add. She was in love.

So as soon as I knew the Trocks were coming to Toronto in February, I knew what Michelle’s birthday gift was going to be. The problem, of course, is that with the lowest priced seats running at 80 bucks a pop, Trocks tickets are a bit out of range for a no-account girl like me.

The sales rep who secured the account reassured me that there would be tickets for me at the station, however. She had planned a big promo night with Miss Conception, voluptuous drag queen extraordinaire and also our station’s own midday host. I was very excited at the prospect.

But then the sales rep left the company for better-paying shores and the account was sort of up in the air, and the next thing you know, there were no tickets and no promo and I was what we trash girls like to call S.O.L. I made phone calls, I spoke to reps and promo people, I did everything I could, and the best answer I could get was “We’ll see.”

So I made other plans.

But then! Here is my testament to how lovely my on-air hosts are: on Tuesday I was in the studio, when Mike Chalut asked Acey Rowe if she was going to see “that ballet thing” on Thursday. I was like, wait just a second, mister. I have been trying for three months to hook myself up with tickets, you don’t even know who the Trocks are, so how did you get an invite? Of course, on-air hosts get everything.

Okay, so I was a bit bitter for a moment.

But there is no way to stay bitter with Mikey, because his first and only reaction was to send his invite to me, so I could RSVP for the tickets. Sweet boy! This is why he’s my best boyfriend. I don’t think the woman at the PR company had any idea who I was, but she graciously responded with my confirmation, so I was set.

And then the next morning, Miss C called me into her studio, saying, “Don’t tell anyone this, but I pulled a few strings for you.” And she produced from her pocket two more tickets. And this is why she is everyone’s best girlfriend in the office. Not only was I set for a date with Michelle, but I could bring friends!

Don’t let anyone tell you that the radio jocks at the Little Queer Station That Could are divas. Their creative director may be a bit embittered and cranky sometimes, but those hosts are truly first rate people. I love the heck out of all of them.

So I got to surprise Michelle with tickets to her favourite thing on the planet after all. I called her up and told her not to make any plans for Thursday evening, and I dressed up all handsome-like for the show. I took her out to dinner beforehand—okay, I took her to Chipotle, but it was her choice, and if my lady wants burritos, dammit, my lady is gonna get burritos!

And the handy thing about Chipotle is that it is just steps away from the Winter Garden Theatre, where the performance would take place. What a bizarre little theatre! You walk in and go up about seven floors of escalators because it is stacked on top of the larger Elgin Theatre on the ground floor. Then you walk into the Winter Garden and there are fabric leaves and garden lanterns hanging from the ceiling, beech branches hand-woven into the ceiling grid, sculpted tree trunks supporting the balconies, and painted foliage frescos on the walls. Michelle felt like she had wandered into Middle Earth.

There are a few really cool things about the Elgin and the Winter Garden. The complex, originally called the Loew’s Yonge Street Theatre, was one of only a few double-decker theatres designed by architect Thomas W. Lamb in the early 20th century, primarily used for vaudeville performances. All other double-decker theatres have since been demolished—the Elgin and Winter Garden are the last operating stacked theatres in the world, and so the complex is now a National Historic Site. The Elgin is a gilded jewel box, while the Winter Garden is a vaudevillian hobbit’s den. Both are gorgeous.

The Winter Garden actually came as quite a surprise to developers restoring the old Elgin. Vaudeville’s appeal declined near the end of the 1920s, with the growing popularity of the motion picture. By 1928, the Winter Garden was shuttered entirely, used as a storage facility for old vaudevillian props and sets. The Elgin was transformed into a movie theatre. The building fell into disrepair, and by the 1970s was used to screen mostly B movies and porn flicks.

In 1981 the Ontario Heritage Trust bought the theatre and began a painstaking restoration of the Elgin. It was during the restoration that developers discovered the Winter Garden upstairs, and the treasure trove of vaudevillian sets and props that had been left inside, which now comprises the world’s largest collection of vaudevillian scenery—posters, hand-painted backdrops and flats that date back to the early 20th century. Amazing! I’m going to have to go back to the theatre for a tour.

And that concludes today’s history lesson, class. Back to our scheduled theatre review. It does relate, though; I cannot think of a better venue in which to see the Trocks perform. The Trocks are a drag troupe of the classic order, bringing a real vaudeville humour to the modern audience. They aren’t doing the kind of bar drag I’ve become accustomed to seeing, all camp and fabulousness and jokes about being on the rag. There’s a long tradition from which they are drawing, a theatrical lineage that dates back to Shakespeare, and even further. Xtra Magazine published a great article about it that gets to the crux of what I am trying to express.

The show was funny as all get-out. The facial expressions alone of some of the dancers were enough to get the crowd roaring. And let me tell you, these boys girls could dance. My ballet-loving friend was not as impressed as I was, although she wasn’t entirely unimpressed, either. Neither of us had ever seen men en pointe before. That’s some serious business.

In one number, Toronto-raised Joshua Grant, dancing as Katerina Bychkova, did the Death of the Swan entirely en pointe and it was incredible. Not only the dancing, but the costume—it was a testament to engineering, with feathers falling consistently and continuously from it as the dancer’s feet moved, finally covering the entire stage. The visual effect was rapturous. I don’t envy the stagehand who has to sweep up those feathers and cram them back into that tutu.

Michelle appreciated her early birthday date. Shameless Girlfriend Plug: she wrote about the Trocks afterward on the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Archives blog. Check it out.

In sum, it was a fantastic show with some excellent performers—athletic dancers and brilliant humourists. I was well pleased. I got to treat Michelle to an exciting pre-birthday treat, and I got to experience the vaudevillian flair of ballet en travesti. Fan-freakin’-tastic.

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.