ART AND ABOUT:Making a splash at the gala

Be careful what you wish for, they say.

I really wanted to go to the Festival of Arts gala this year. It’s the highlight and wrap-up of the festival season, a star-studded event that even sports a red carpet.

It’s my third year in Laguna Beach as a local newspaper editor, and I wanted to see what this splashy event was all about.

So this year I requested a ticket when the very efficient Festival of Arts marketing department asked how many would like to attend from our paper. I was told two tickets would be held for me.

Now, I had planned to go solo, since it would be a “working” evening and my partner has long ago lost her enthusiasm for such affairs, but it just so happened that our editorial cartoonist, Steve Bolton, had mentioned to me a few days earlier that he had never seen the Pageant of the Masters and would love to go.

Perfect timing! I asked Steve if he was available, and he was delighted to give up a Saturday night to be in Laguna.

Now this was sweet. Not only did I have entree to this event, but an interesting and very presentable date “” since who could be a better companion at an art show than a real artist?

I arrived early, planning to shoot video of the “red carpet walk” for our website. I was not disappointed: spray-tanned, buffed and sheened celebs began working the phalanx of “paparazzi” photographers, while a growing crowd of oogling onlookers gathered behind the media area. Adding to the glitz was the presence of a reporter and cameraman from Entertainment Tonight.

I have been to “red carpet” events before and have endured the crush of more aggressive photographers who have honed their elbowing skills over years of plying the publicity trade. I had to duck under one woman’s flying camera lens several times before I decided to stake out my territory and stick to it.

As more luck would have it, Laguna Beach Police Det. Debbie Kelso was also working the red carpet walk. I’ve been talking to her for more than a year about cases she’s cracked. I was surprised to see her there in police blues since she’s a detective, but the department is so short-staffed that even the chief of police is walking a beat these days.

Kelso made a good protector of my space and a pleasant companion as we chatted about the impending arrivals.

Some Laguna locals even did the carpet walk, among them arts commissioner Pat Kollenda, who seemed very at home mugging for the photogs.

Hostess Valerie Bertinelli was perky and fun, but the real highlight for the Hollywood media was when Eve Plumb (Laguna Beach Planning Commissioner and Jan on the Brady Bunch) happened to arrive at the same time as Florence Henderson, who played Jan’s mom Carol on the same seminal show (which I never personally watched, but what did I know?). The E.T. reporter was just thrilled to get the two of them together “after so many years.”

Another star of years ago who made the photographers’ day was Donna Mills, of the “Desperate Housewives” precourser “Knots Landing,” who drove her own car to the event and was stuck behind a stanchion for quite a while right in front of the media corral. While Donna sat there, a stilt-walker in an ostrich costume strode up to her. Donna put her hand out, only to have the frisky ostrich nip at her. Photog heaven!

When my date arrived, I abandoned the red carpet and was determined to enjoy the rest of the evening, which promised a sumptuous meal.

Steve had never been to the Festival of Arts and wanted to see “all the art,” so we began with one of my favorite artists, John Taylor, who builds replicas of derelict ships with lots of history behind them. Turns out that John and I grew up across the Five Mile River from each other in Connecticut “” he in Darien and I in Rowayton “” where he says the inspiration for his nautical-themed artwork originated.

After chatting with John, we moved on to other booths, finding the artists very obliging and interesting. After an hour or so, we had seen a lot of art and had eaten a lot of munchies that were being offered, but still had not discovered the promised feast.

By now exhausted, we perched on a railing, I with a glass of red wine with a plate of rather limp edibles balanced on top, when suddenly my position shifted and the half-glass of wine splashed down my side.

I was now drenched in red wine and from the shocked looks of my date and the people around us, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

I fled to the ladies’ room, where I apologized for butting in front of people and assured them I wasn’t on the way to the toilet but to the sink. A few paper towels later, I was a bit wetter but somewhat less red.

By now it was time for the Pageant to begin, and I was chilled and, while not quite starving, wondering what had happened to the meal that we had been expecting “” and that I had promised Steve.

We found our seats in the Irvine Bowl. I at least had the satisfaction of knowing that Steve would have the wonderful experience of seeing the Pageant of the Masters for the very first time.

As we were sitting there, I took a closer look at the invitation, which I had shoved into my bag earlier. Printed on it was the menu for the gala dinner: papaya and shrimp salad, filet mignon, garlic potatoes, artichoke heart with butter and chocolate bomb with fresh berries for dessert. And an open bar.

I stuffed the invite back into my bag, not wanting to taunt Steve with it; then thought I’d better confess that we’d somehow missed the best meal of the year.

But on the up side, we were about to be entertained by one of the most unusual art forms in existence.

I felt better knowing he was wowed by the performance, especially after hearing him intone, “How did they do that?” more than once.

At intermission, we went out to forage and he got a cup of coffee.

We were circling a dessert table when it happened again: a man turned unexpectedly and Steve’s half-full steaming cup of coffee hit me full force.

The man mumbled an apology and all but ran away.

I was now drenched not only with red wine remnants but hot coffee.

We were dumbfounded, but by now I was an old hand at mopping up, and headed straight back to the restroom.

As we were standing around later, two women rushed by, one holding her hand over her mouth and the other one holding her up.

Apparently the open bar had gotten the best of the one holding her mouth: her dress was drenched with vomit, and her legs were buckling.

Two younger women near us expressed disgust, but I was appreciative.

I can now say I was not the only woman at the gala to run to the restroom “” but probably the only one who had to run twice.