Saturday, September 22, 2007
Quick
09/23/07 QUICK: Not-so-plain Calamity Jane
Not-so-plain Calamity Jane
By Caren West
My life lately has turned into a string
of embarrassing moments. It all started when I was having breakfast
with Neil Salvage at The Four Seasons Hotel ...
Rhett Turner’s photography is part of Bill Lowe Gallery’s “An Ear to the Ground: A Look at Global Shifts in Perception.”
CREDIT: Bill Lowe Gallery |
Not-so-plain Calamity Jane
By Caren West
My life lately has turned into a string of embarrassing moments. It all started when I was having breakfast with Neil Salvage at The Four Seasons Hotel in Midtown. Although I am not a morning person, I love breakfast and adore everything about the Four Seasons— other than pulling up to the valet in my beat-up Honda that I refuse to let go of.
Neil, an old Atlanta friend who relocated to Charlotte, currently spends his days as the executive vice president of sales and service for Citysearch. As we caught up and discussed a little business, somehow my pen flew out of my hand. Happens all the time, but unfortunately I launched my pen with such force it flew over the balcony and down into the bustling lobby. Mortified, I just stared at Neil and said, “Sweet.” Of course, the servers ran over, offering me their pens just as I contemplated throwing myself off the balcony in fear that there might be a guest checking in to the hotel with a pen lodged in his or her eye.
Next up, I put on my PR hat, along with my new favorite Target dress, for the opening night reception of “An Ear to the Ground: A Look at Global Shifts in Perception” at Bill Lowe Gallery. I was particularly excited because I knew my favorite Canadian artist Thrush Holmes would be there, and Ted Turner would also be making an appearance in support of his son Rhett Turner’s commercial gallery debut.
Just as Lowe was about to formally announce that his gallery is moving into John Dewberry’s Two Peachtree Point and The Museum of Contemporary Art of Georgia will take over the gallery’s current home, I noticed Thrush needed a new cocktail. As a good little publicist, I grabbed a drink for one of my art heroes and then realized I would have to make my way up a tricky spiral staircase and onto the catwalk in front of 500 people. I silently repeated, “Don’t trip, don’t trip,” as I walked up the stairs and did everything in my power not to focus on just how short my Target dress really was.
Thankfully, I delivered the drink problem-free and was about to make my exit when the speeches started and the entire room fell silent. I was trapped with all of the speakers, including Rhett and Ted Turner and renowned National Geographic photojournalist and documentarian Chris Rainier. Of course, my cell started ringing during the most important part and was hidden in my bottomless pit of an Italian suede bag. Me rifling through my super-sized purse, while trying not to crotch-flash 500 guests á la Britney Spears was great entertainment for all of my friends and my mortification moment No. 2 of the week. I think Ted Turner must have felt sorry for me, because he gave me a kiss good-bye on the cheek and a pat on the back.
The next day, I flew to Baltimore for my nephew’s one-year birthday celebration. After successfully avoiding a poop foot incident and all diaper changes, baby Finn ended up getting me in the end. As part of my auntie duties, I fed him breakfast before I left for the airport. The little sucker thought it would be fun to repeatedly spit his breakfast on me. What I failed to notice for the rest of the day—a slew of meetings included—was that I was walking around with baby breakfast in my hair and on the back of my shirt. I finally noticed at 11:30 p.m. Brilliant. Mortification moment No. 3.
Finally, before heading to The Sunday Paper’s three-year anniversary soiree at Hard Rock Café’s Velvet Underground, I met up with Diesel’s Guia Golden, who was in Atlanta from New York. As we chatted it up over cocktails at The Glenn Hotel, I forgot I had barely eaten. By the time I made it to the SP bash to rock with Drivin’ n’ Cryin’, I was three sheets to the wind.
Jimmy Baron, who was also at the event and has laughed at many of my drunken tales over the years, was gracious enough to give me a ride home. Unfortunately, I was so excited to catch up with him and was so buzzed I somehow misdirected him. What should have been a five-minute ride ended up taking us on a half-hour tour of Atlanta. I am still completely mortified. Sorry, Jimmy. I owe ya one. SP
When not attending Atlanta’s hottest parties, tracking down celebs or shopping for shoes, Caren West runs her own PR firm. E-mail her at carenwest@sundaypaper.com.