Sometimes it’s Halloween, and you’ve got no place to go, then all of a sudden you are sneaking into the great ball room of the Opera House on Queen Street; mingling with Broken Social Scene and getting into heated arguments (again) with Jian Ghomeshi as you pick the roast beef from your teeth…
Here’s a fragmental little story I wrote to celebrate the night. Note: it’s not even close to as monumental as was the rooftop pool of the exclusive Thompson Hotel bar by a certain long-haired artist friend. He even got written up in all the society rags for it (video is included below!)
This is where the night ended. Harley Valentine like a drunken sexualized Jesus, jumping into the infinity pool on the Thompson Hotel roof.
Here is how the night began:
We ate and drank well in Leslieville. The streetcar ride home was nice, talking to the couple from Paris in my terrible French. Drunk of course – but more bored than anything, and intrigued by a group of three school girls dressed like cats.
Harley stayed at the back – seemingly thinking about his life, unshaven, smiling every time I glanced back at him to see if he was enjoying the show.
We passed the Four Seasons and there it was. Stunning, sparkling tower of black suits, cream glittered gowns and gallons of rich wines, cold vodkas. The great glass cube beckons like a nightingale or a hungry child- something obvious. It was not planned for, but suddenly this is going to be the night.
We get out of the train and walk to the entrance. We’re clearly underdressed, but it’s good to get some recon first. We ask around, and I try sneaking a glance and the door proceedure. Pretty standard stuff. Show your stamp. Be confident. You’ll get in.
Sure of ourselves, about most things, we scramble back the few blocks to my townhouse on Soho and I toss on a black tie, black shoes, cologne. Harley wraps his hair back with an elastic and cleans up a bit, too. Not as much as me, but he looks better.
We get there and there’s a spur of the moment decision to just walk in. Harley’s a few feet behind me as I elegantly negotiate the door girl, then the ushers. I show them my stamp, perfectly. Harley, is not so lucky.
I can feel he isn’t with me as a mesh into the perfumed crowd. It’s blurry because I am so excited – but where the hell is Harley. Against my better judgement I quickly glance back and he is wrestling with the door guy. I am spotted now too. Within a few seconds, I am escorted out.
We walk around the building – not yet giving up. We try to bribe the door girl at the back emergency exit – but she appreciates her job too much. She was cute and I tried putting a little bit of the old smile-and-nod to her, but nothing worked. Not even after I told her about some romantic emergency stopping me from entering through the front like a normal ticket holder. She wouldnt budge.
Nearly ready to give up and let this crystal castle turn into another dream without colour, we make one final bid to stand around out front. Harley – a violent Toronto artist with courage like a Picasso but Gould-like passion – is sure we will bump into our meal ticket outside.
And within less than a minute, he’s proven right. Two blondes, black stilettos, not bad looking, flock over. “Harley – it’s you. Didn’t we party in Manhattan once?” — “Oh yes – Claire.” And they talk about the Gramercy Hotel, and giant plates of Shrimp or whatever it is that happens in Manhattan when you are young, and hungry, and willing. She introduces her friend – also named Claire – and Harley introduces me. We explain our situation, they agree to help.
We wrap them in our coats after they lick their stamps and press them to our hands. We walk in like old pals, not very affectionately, but just enough for the door people to not stare us in the eyes. The ruse works, really well this time. We get the girls a few vodka sodas for their trouble and the night begins.
The New American Daily. 