“There is nothing going on in this city.” “There are no parties.” Why I never! These are two phrases uttered way too often; they make me want to forget I’m a delicate eight-foot-lady and kick some ass.
For those whose faces aren’t buried in their Blackberrys and walking into the walls of their own self-importance, the bells have been going off for a while now. It’s party time.
Put on your raspberry berets and watch as our erotic city comes alive for Purplelectricity at the Drake Hotel (1150 Queen St W), the Sat, Aug 29 Prince party ($5 cover; doors at 11pm) brought to you by that cutie DJ Dr Baggie. If you can believe it, much like the Bible, it’s on to its 21st edition. The musical dwarf’s chart hits and dancefloor favourites are plentiful and bottomless, though the same cannot be said of attendees of the night who shriek like teenage girls when “Pussy Control” oozes out of the speakers, raising the hairs on my arms, legs and other unspeakable places. This is what it sounds like when doves cry?
I guess control is Janet’s job. Since MJ is now the latest contender for surreal art posters alongside Marilyn, Elvis and James Dean, the world is suddenly embracing ’80s icons and recognizing their greatness… and thank God. Paula Abdul hasn’t sold a record since 1987 and she needs her booze money.
Riding along in my little red Corvette, I pull up to the bumper of Zipperz (72 Carlton St) where Thursdays are now hip-hopping and happening. Looks like all those inhumanly patient Crews/Tango show queens are gracing us with their jewels and feathers once again by stepping back into the spotlight and spicing up other venues in the village with clam and glam.
Heaven Lee Hytes (the unofficial sixth Pussy Cat Doll), Felicia and Nicolette Brown are the Zipperz Angels now for the 11pm show. The night’s promised mayhem is almost delivered when I think I see a nut of one of the performers poking out of a glittered frock, guaranteeing that one way or another everyone has a ball.
Four thousand years ago the only balls you’d get sight of were probably attached to chains around your ankles. Slave to the rhythm of ancient glamour for the launch of new monthly Sodom at Goodhandy’s (120 Church St) on Sat, Aug 15 (10pm doors; $7 cover before10:30pm, $10 after) with former Sissy DJ Daniel Paquette (see story page 19). Sodom, in this case, is more Biblical than a reference to that unholy box of yours but things are going to get stylish and steamy. Don’t even pretend eating grapes and farting glitter isn’t on your to do list (it’s on mine; I’m working that party).
Before countless media outlets existed there was only one way you’d know if something was worthwhile and that was by word of mouth. Perhaps in an ironic relation to that time, here’s a party that has that, as Paula Abdul says, straight up. When you’re drunk like Paula and waiting to bolt from your seat for another martini, you probably run into the first dive you see. If you’re lucky that dive is jive and happening. Toronto’s hottest and most fascinating men and women get bent at Straight (533 Church St) and work pricey, yummy fashions as they shimmy and shake to Mark Falco’s stellar mixing capabilities (most Saturdays) and Screaming Gina’s shrill, eight-octave wail. The irony of who is straight and who is clearly not becomes a strange subversive game for those offered little conversation and attention because of their wrong choice in shirt.
But what is fierce anyways?
Zelda’s (542 Church St) offers up something like it. Though Friday nights are supposed to have the fierceness content in hand, the mental and spontaneously brilliant Lena Over’s weekly Saturday Cheap Show and Best Ass Contest (9pm; no cover) is the cool that still rules the school. Fine folks like yourself can eat the famous Zelda’s burger and show off the damage to your ass afterward for a cash prize while the crowds inside and out on the patio get the dessert for free. Relish is not only for your burger.
The outrageous and bizarre themes always make it a blast to observe. “Disco Disasters,” “Slutty Sports Wear” and of course the often recurring “Trailer Park Trash” are tastelessly delicious. I’ll settle for the chicken fingers for now, and waiter, please get my friend Paula some water.
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