June 6, 2000
Namedropping - THE COMMENTARY
By Joseph Planta
VANCOUVER -- I donít know Jacqui Cohen, nor was I invited to this yearís Face The World foundation gala at her waterfront estate. I do not live in a $2.8 million dollar house overlooking wonderful English Bay, but if I did, Iíd call Shelly Lederman if I wanted to sell it. Brian Jessel doesnít personally sell me cars. Nor did Mr. Penfold install the cedar roof on my house either.
Ray Greenwood didnít ask my opinion on how to throw this yearís Symphony of Fire do, nor did Bruce Allen ask me if I knew of any up and coming talent. Wasnít at Ray and Grace McCarthyís latest garden party, although Iím sure the tea and cucumber sandwiches were divine.
Wendy Lisogar and Sergio Cochia arenít close friends, although Iím certain theyíre nice people. They own a nifty hotel, by the way.
I didnít get married last month, so it wasnít for me that Brian Adams was flown into town at $500,000 who entertained the guests at the reception. Kudos to Pamela Martin, who did get married to her beau John Haibeck. I wasnít invited to the wedding at the Vancouver Club, because the invite must have gotten lost in the mail. Iím sure she looked lovely, as did Annie Drennan and Tony Parsons who were among the so-lucky guests. And no, they arenít dating.
Michael Campbell isnít my investment advisor, nor did Gordon Pape do my taxes. Shell Busey isnít on our speed dial, in case the water tank breaks, and Wim Vander Zalm doesnít look after our front lawn. Mel Zajac isnít my golfing buddy, although heís probably pretty good at it. My doctor isnít Art Hister and I donít get my legal advice from Peter Butler. I donít even go to school with his kids.
Since Iím not a judge or George Garrett, I wasnít asked to speak at the Magistrates Dinner at the Arbutus Club, recently. If Fred and Cathy were pals of mine, theyíd have told me where theyíve gone crusing, as they are in retirement. I have never dated Tamara Taggart, though I think sheís perky, I donít think I ever will.
Peter Legge has never been the MC at any of my parties, nor has Dee Daniels ever sang exclusively for me. And no, Patrick Reid isnít my godfather, although my birthday gifts would have been very lavish. Sam Feldman isnít a close friend either, nor is David Y.H. Lui. I havenít broken bread with Jack Munroe, and it wasnít me that fired him from that catamaran building boondoggle, er I mean business.
Blaine Cullingís restaurants arenít my favourite hangouts, nor is Fredís Uptown Tavern in Gastown on St. Pattyís Day, because Mac Parry has never invited me. I never get free passes to ride on Marc Andrewsí Starlight Dinner train, either.
Chuck Davis isnít optioned to write my biography either.
I was never Arthur Griffithís personal trainer, nor do I play bridge with Mr. and Mrs. Bill Hughes at their sprawling Chartwell estate, every Saturday. Iíve never had a drink with Jimmy Pattison, nor has Peter Wall ever invited me to brunch. I didnít, however, attend a seder at the home of Joe and Rosalie Segal, last Passover.
And, for the last time, I was never married to Pia Shandel in the Ď70s.
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