June 6, 2000
Namedropping - THE COMMENTARY
By Joseph Planta
VANCOUVER -- I don’t know Jacqui Cohen, nor was I invited to this year’s 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, I’d call Shelly Lederman if I wanted to sell it. Brian Jessel doesn’t personally sell me cars. Nor did Mr. Penfold install the cedar roof on my house either.
Ray Greenwood didn’t ask my opinion on how to throw this year’s Symphony of Fire do, nor did Bruce Allen ask me if I knew of any up and coming talent. Wasn’t at Ray and Grace McCarthy’s latest garden party, although I’m sure the tea and cucumber sandwiches were divine.
Wendy Lisogar and Sergio Cochia aren’t close friends, although I’m certain they’re nice people. They own a nifty hotel, by the way.
I didn’t get married last month, so it wasn’t 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 wasn’t invited to the wedding at the Vancouver Club, because the invite must have gotten lost in the mail. I’m sure she looked lovely, as did Annie Drennan and Tony Parsons who were among the so-lucky guests. And no, they aren’t dating.
Michael Campbell isn’t my investment advisor, nor did Gordon Pape do my taxes. Shell Busey isn’t on our speed dial, in case the water tank breaks, and Wim Vander Zalm doesn’t look after our front lawn. Mel Zajac isn’t my golfing buddy, although he’s probably pretty good at it. My doctor isn’t Art Hister and I don’t get my legal advice from Peter Butler. I don’t even go to school with his kids.
Since I’m not a judge or George Garrett, I wasn’t asked to speak at the Magistrates Dinner at the Arbutus Club, recently. If Fred and Cathy were pals of mine, they’d have told me where they’ve gone crusing, as they are in retirement. I have never dated Tamara Taggart, though I think she’s perky, I don’t 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 isn’t my godfather, although my birthday gifts would have been very lavish. Sam Feldman isn’t a close friend either, nor is David Y.H. Lui. I haven’t broken bread with Jack Munroe, and it wasn’t me that fired him from that catamaran building boondoggle, er I mean business.
Blaine Culling’s restaurants aren’t my favourite hangouts, nor is Fred’s Uptown Tavern in Gastown on St. Patty’s Day, because Mac Parry has never invited me. I never get free passes to ride on Marc Andrews’ Starlight Dinner train, either.
Chuck Davis isn’t optioned to write my biography either.
I was never Arthur Griffith’s personal trainer, nor do I play bridge with Mr. and Mrs. Bill Hughes at their sprawling Chartwell estate, every Saturday. I’ve never had a drink with Jimmy Pattison, nor has Peter Wall ever invited me to brunch. I didn’t, 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 ‘70s.
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