Helen Loveridge's 50th Birthday Party Madness!

Oh, and you thought once SIFF ended that was it for the parties, did you? Ha! Well, in fact I had announced to a select few I'd be writing up this particular party, then I just didn't. Then, lo and behold, I got actual requests to do so! Well! Your wish, my command, etc. Been great getting your comments folks, and to fill in a few other answers to your queries, I honed my skills as a gossip columnist serving as "Johnny Renton" at The Rocket for eons (the truth finally revealed publicly!) and for further inspiration, I re-read The Orton Diaries (Brit playwright Joe Orton that is) every year. Anyway...

So, on June 2, 2004, at approximately 10:42 pm (okay, I made that time up), SIFF Festival Director Helen Loveridge invited me to her birthday party. Well! How can one not be impressed. Turns out she's a Gemini, a truly delightful, charming, and witty sign as I can say with confidence, because I'm one myself! Ha! (other Gems include Bob Dylan, Paul Lynde, Xaviera "Happy Hooker" Hollander, and the Marquis de Sade). Thankfully, her birth date is June 15, which worked out well this year, as it was two days after SIFF�s closing, meaning everyone could recover from any hangovers resulting from the closing night party on the 13th (I happily avoided a hangover; not all were so lucky!).

It was the big 5-0 for Helen, so this promised to be something special. The party was held at the Steve Jensen gallery on 10th on Cap Hill, a venue I'd walked by dozens, maybe even hundreds, of times before, as it's across the street from Nuemos, which I used to frequent when it was "old" Moe's, and it's kinda behind La Puerta, where I've had many a margarita. I think I can remember what I wore — black pants, red shirt, and navy blue jacket I hoped no one remembered I'd worn to opening night. For a gift I opted for the ever-popular grab bag approach, an attractive gift bag stuffed with numerous items that usually impresses the recipient because there's so much stuff to paw through. The piece de resistance was, of course, an autographed copy of my book, innovatively wrapped in pages of Tablet (such a clever girl).

I arrived to find the bottom floor deserted, just some passholders guarding the entrance. On asking where everyone was, I was told upstairs. So up I go. I was fortunate enough to run into Helen right away, and have her open and acknowledge my gift right away, because as the night went on, the grand piano in the place became totally covered with gifts for her! What a haul! No, I didn't snoop, but I observed many attractive gift bags, packages that obviously contained liquor/wine bottles, flowers, cards, etc.

A circular stairway led to the roof. As the sun was out, we had a stunning view of Mt. Rainier, which from the distance always looks like a photograph to me. There was an unmarked ledge/step though, which gave people (such as myself!) increasing difficulty as it grew darker and you couldn't see it. There were many tables with chairs up top, all scattered with various adornments; Mardi Gras beads, party poppers (several of which I popped to amuse those across the street heading for Nuemos), candies (I scarfed up the Smarties), soap bubbles, and buttons sporting a pic of our Helen as a wee lass (the niftiest SIFF button I've seen since the limited edition run of buttons of Harry Dean Kitty, resident cat at The Market Theater back in the day). A collector�s item to be sure, too bad I didn�t grab more than one.

There was a full bar stocked with all kinds of name brand liquor (as in the ad: "He works for Halliburton. AND he drinks Johnnie Walker Red"), and I opted for, you've guessed it, Skyy vodka. No champagne tonight. Was surprised to see one of the caterers was Lisa, formerly of the band Infamous Menagerie, a very loud outfit known for banging on shopping carts or some kind of metallic objects. We chatted, she's not doing music any more, alas. The food was awesome, I didn't take notes, though I remember there was something with duck in it that wasn't that great. But there was plenty of other good stuff to make up for that. The tables on the food floor were also scattered with items, little white babies and little black babies (the black ones disappeared first), and masses of condoms. Though when I reached for one I found the stack was smeared with lubricant — yes, there were little packets of that too — so I left 'em alone.

Who was there? Well, you'd expect to see SIFF staffers, wouldn't you. And there were various journos (Sean Axmaker, Mike from SGN), publicists (the ever-pleasant Nancy Locke, Kathlyn from Allied McDonald, who was also a Fly Filmmaker this year), and passholders (Paul, Bic, Chris, sorry I don't have the last names...). Some theater staffers too, like ace espresso dude Craig Cappucino, and 7 Gables/Landmark institution Ruth Hayler. Oh, and Michael Nank from Vulcan (a Paul Allen company), he's Media Relations Manager there, I'd just met him at the press preview for the new Science Fiction Museum (SFM; they sent me a cap, you may recall). A nice mix. We drank, ate, drank, smoked cigarettes on the roof, drank, watched the sunset, and, um, drank. Everyone was relaxed, for a change, no one had to rush home and write up anything or worry about what guests were arriving the next day. A wall by the entrance had been decorated with Xeroxed shots of Helen Through The Ages, and one of her friends told me various anecdotes about the pics, which really should've had some kind of identifying captions, but getting a personally guided tour was of course better anyway.

The place was total paparazzi-ville, every fifth person it seemed had a camera, I've only seen that many cameras at weddings! Photog Steve Smith, "Professional Friend," as his biz card says, was there of course, snapping away. SIFF staffers were surreptitiously arranging a surprise album for Helen, taking Polaroid pix of all of us, sticking them in an album, then having you sign by your photo. Karla E ended up sitting on my lap in our pic. The album was presented to Helen later in the week�good gift idea. The passholders gave Helen a very elaborately wrapped gift, in a series of boxes, the outer one covered with buttons from throughout SIFF's illustrious history. Inside, after all that, was a gift certificate for a spa — a much needed gift, I would imagine. But she didn't get to keep the buttons.

Helen also received about four different tiaras (including one from me, and another that featured flashing lights), and so she kept switching off throughout the night. Festival Director of Programming Carl Spence purchased a load of skates for people to use on the bottom floor, but after all those drinks I sure wasn�t going to take a chance (I sprain my ankle when I'm stone cold sober, in tennis shoes). Not many people danced — yes, there was a DJ — but a few hardy souls ventured out on skates, including Karla's daughter, whose name I'm not going to mangle by trying to type it here. She fell down many times but kept a-going, what a trouper. As I was watching her, Karla's husband, Diego, graciously volunteered to get me more drinks, which I surely didn�t need, but how could I say no? When would I have access to free Skyy again? This is how you get in trouble folks.

But I wasn't going to get into much trouble tonight. I'd been alternating drinks with soda (work the next morn, y'see), and at a respectable hour joined a group of passholders attempting to drag Helen away from her conversation so we could hug her goodbye. I think I made it home by midnight. Of course the other revelers kept a-going, wandering up to Barca just in time for closing time, then wandering back to the gallery, which they persuaded the owner to open up again so they could do god knows what (there was a basement with a locked door, and what happened with all those condoms and lubricant?), finally staggering home not too long before I myself was probably getting up and washing my hair, preparing for the work day. Such is life. But was it fun? Yes! A total blast! Helen herself proclaimed it, "The best fucking night of my life" or was that "The best night of my fucking life"? Words to that effect. You get the drift. Boy, hope I have that much fun on my 50th.