Chugging the sparkool-aid.

I feel like I hoisted a bunch of pomp and circumstance for German Sparkle Party but failed to tell you what it was. In the wake of the event, it’s time to pop that piñata and give the people what they want. It all started with a viral video (as most things do these days). A great viral video, really. Involving the words “party pants” and “dancey dance” in quick succession. What more could you look for in a tune? An extrapolation into a large scale dance event, according to the guys running the I Love Promise group here in Toronto. For the past four years they’ve been running huge raves based around the theme. A variety of DJs playing a cross section of EDM genres all while attendees are decked out in almost offensively sparktaular gaudiness. However it sounds to hear it, it’s infinitely better to experience it.

Last year’s event was in an old abandoned insurance building. You know how haunting a dark warehouse setting is for a dance party? Not remotely. Not when every orifice is crammed with flashing fluoro laser lights and strobes. There was a raised platform for people who thought their moves were podium worthy, as well as a large net full of soft toys dangling above a games area. A large section of couches made a great chill out space for those whose feet and brains needed a break from the sensory detonation. Last year I got there about midnight and danced till close. I think I got back home around 7am. A good effort while sober, powered by 2 energy drinks.

This year things upscaled massively. The Atlantis Pavillion was remarkably more lively, less dingy. What seems to be almost exclusively a wedding venue held a tryst of a different variety (I’m not gonna lie, there were better words to use than tryst but I just liked the look of it. I do that sometimes. Maybe it’s the appeal of the sole vowel being the sometimes ‘Y’, but I’mma role with it. Because. I. Can. Then again, I’m in control here. I could’ve just made a sentence that included tryst without creating this whole big hullabaloo. But then I might not have gotten to use the word hullabaloo twice. Then where would we be right now? I don’t think any of us want to live in that dark timeline) and added a touch of class to the event. Well garbed bouncers doing drug checks (because rave, amirite?), $1 coat check and severely dour custodians who I don’t think had any inkling of what they’d signed on for. They had a sparkle area upstairs to splatter you with shimmering goodies if your costume wasn’t whelming others to a sub optimal degree. There was an outdoor deck overlooking a stunning lake, with projections cast upon the surrounding exterior walls. The chill out area had leveled up, with large flat couches and small leather chairs sufficient for the inevitable snuggling that came with ravers and their medicines. They were pretty sweet digs, yo.

For the most part I just kept my outfit from last year and found some swanky additions. Trying to find male attire fit for the occasion was nigh impossible. So I figured, why try? My top wouldn’t have been amiss on an ice skater. Festooned with enough glittery sequinny sparklishishness to enforce an epileptic seisure. Tryst me (:P). My purple spandex leggings lacked the necessary gaudiness, so I affixed lines of plastic sticky rhinestones all down the front and behind (but not my behind. I’m not that cheeky). Some fancy plastic boas tied around my waist acted as a furry tail and the pièce de résistance was a pair of shimmering green Dame Edna style glasses. Complete with green lenses, they cast an inter-dimensional sheen over the evening, only heightening the experience.

How was the experience, you might ask? Fabulous, fantastic, fantabulous, fabulistic. Choose your option. Having wrenched my knee (dancing, oddly enough. Less odd if you’ve seen me dance) earlier in the year it’s been ages since I could go out for some kinetic catharsis. I missed a slew of summer Promise parties and I was determined to make up for it. I did. OH, I did. Dance events make me realise that I was temporally displaced by not being a 90s raver. My dancing “style” (if you can call it that) involves a huge range of movement, dipping, popping, twisting and some heel-toe action. If I feel a beat my feet get correspondingly explosive, attempting to cover as much ground as possible. It could be one of the reasons that wherever I dance, people assume it’s a thoroughfare and attempt to move through my. Either that or I’ve been dead the whole time (TWIST). Elsewise their attempts at IDCLIP have failed. Whatever their logic, I try to flow enough to move around them without inhibiting my step. I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m convinced that confidence while dancing is of an almost equivalent importance to skill. It’s probably the reason that every time I go out, someone decides to challenge me to a break dance battle. I’m not even making this up. They assume I’ve had some form of practice (which I guess I chalk down as a compliment) and take me on. They nearly always win, because after “the worm” and a poor “six step” I’ve got nothing. I can’t even C-walk. I eventually devolve into “the sprinkler” and it’s all over. It’s alright, the only loser is the person who doesn’t participate in the first place. Or some other meaningless adage I can use to save face.

By the end of the night (otherwise known as early morning) I’d expended energy twisting and loping around, having the requisite cuddles and engaging in the overly affectionate kind of conversation that the environment demands. As if compensating for the missed summer gigs, I’d had a blast. Cooling down with friends I’d resolved to go bigger next year, or at least get new glasses. And maybe one more move for the inevitable breakdance battle.

Shine on you crazy diamonds.


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