All I Want For Christmas Is To Move My Feet: How I Survived Santa's Dirty Workshop

During my travels through the various realms of electronic music I stumbled upon a small, tightly knit group of music-loving entrepreneurs that had banded together to provide something different. They offered "transformative experiences through customized events that engage, entertain, and delight." This sounded like my particular brand of vodka, so I decided to attend one of their events in the summer at a dilapidated industrial building. Immediately, I was hooked. This was what I had been looking for.

Fast forward six months later, and their parties had become a monthly occurrence. Who was invited? At the beginning, it was mostly close friends and insiders—sometimes only a few dozen people attended—but every new person brought into the fold stayed, and they brought friends of their own. With the ranks of partiers ballooning and each event upping the experience, I had to finish the year with a proverbial bang. And so, with one last holiday party before I skipped town, I decided to chronicle my time at WDS' year-end holiday party, the aptly named Santa's Dirty Workshop.

I arrived at 12:30 AM and the party was already in full swing. Situated in downtown Toronto on Geary Avenue, a diverse kilometer-and-a-half off Ossington Avenue, and in a hidden-away basement beneath a local business, was one of the city's best-kept raver secrets. In the daylight, the room may look like a bad ketamine trip (you know I had to say it), but during the night it was a free-loving paradise full of like-minded people and great vibes. Known simply as "Geary," it had become a home away from home for myself and countless others as an anything goes, off-the-wall party spot. Christmas, it seems, had come early.

One by one, my friends and I descended down the wooden steps and into the heart of the beast. Immediately, I was struck by a childlike sense of wonder. You remember that feeling, when the magic was still real? This place had it in spades. Amidst the deliciously deep disco beats of in-house DJ STEIN was a plethora of decked-out attendees, whose looks ranged from the fun—almost everyone was wearing something Christmas-themed. To the slightly bizarre, a man was wearing a giant-sized, full-bodied Rudolph costume to the downright sexy—you know who you are—ladies.

To the right is a Christmas tree and presents. Standard affair, right? Not this time. Instead, the evergreen conifer hung upside-down from the ceiling. It was quite a sight to see revelers dancing to a flipped image of "O Tannenbaum."

As I made my way through the dancefloor, I encountered a decidedly older Mr. and Mrs. Claus, replete with real grey hair and an even realer set of bellies.

Off to the side was a glowing, all-red tent, set up for partygoers in need of a momentary reprieve. I took off my shoes, shuffled inside, and found myself smack-dab in the middle of a full-blown massage clinic. The masseuse was one of our hosts for the evening, and like the Christmas tree, he too was hanging upside down. He offered his services by way of a portable buffer machine, all whilst wearing a tribal headdress and a spectacular pair of red and white spandex pants. I sat, transfixed, before the sounds of the next DJ pulled my attention away.

Oh the sweet taste of whippets. With a deflated balloon in hand, I floated towards the pulsing, progressive sounds of Dustin Nantais, who had just stepped up to the decks. I hate to rampantly throw around hyperbole, but his set would have warmed the heart of even the coldest of Grinches.

The spectacle and clear lack of alcohol-induced, steroid-fuelled drama, had the crowd in high spirits. "Fuck the clubs and mass-produced parties," gushed one particularly excited partygoer. I couldn't agree more. I turned to face to another set of would-be friends and found myself enveloped in a heart-melting hug. The love was strong in this one.

I headed towards the back of the venue and up another set of stairs, past a conspicuously busy bathroom area and out into the night for the opportunity to collect myself and ingest some much-needed nicotine. Situated beside train tracks and bathed in moonlight, the area took on a surreal glow, which was only exemplified by the arrival of a honking metal behemoth.

Back to the revelry I went, and into the salacious sounds from a surprise performer and birthday girl juSt b, whose dark, sexy, seductive and emotively melodic beats had the crowd in a collective apoplexy. It's not only fantastic to encounter a great female DJ in such a male-dominated industry; it was also incredible to see one who was so passionate about what their profession. I was enthralled.

The Secret Santa gift-giving session had arrived. Again, I had to pause and smile at the sheer freshness of it all. Here was a venue that catered to the whims of its carousers, rather than the pockets of bottle service servers. We were small-knit group, but I'd yet to bring anyone to "the dungeon" that didn't leave profoundly effected by the overflowing lust for life, love, and luscious sounds.

The presents, as one would expect, were a cornucopia of hilarious and heartfelt objects, ranging from penis-shaped candy and pocket vibrators, to Christmas ornaments and technicoloured candy canes.

As I continued to dance the night away, a tap on my shoulder revealed that I had also danced away much of the early morning. As I circled to the back of the room in search of some bitter refreshment, I encountered a merrymaker that had a consumed a little too much eggnog. At first, I thought that the night was about to take a turn for the worst. And then, like the birth of Jesus Christ himself, a miracle occurred.

It was now 7:30 AM, and while my mind cried onwards, my legs, liver, and livelihood decided enough was enough.