I had a third eye once. It rolled off my forehead at a '93 rave in an abandoned Detroit airplane hangar and across the huge cement dance floor, barely missing getting squashed by hyperkinetic Canadians and nitrous-giddy kiddies swarming after an airborne fleet of inflated latex bananas. People wore bigger shoes back then, so I panicked slightly and gave chase. Read more »
SUPER EGO Bad gay hair is back! From Chris Crocker's "Leave Britney Alone!" bilevel blond bob apocalypse to Perez Hilton's ever-changing lamebow of neon locks (bitch looks as though the Planet Unicorn creatures from YouTube exploded on her giant head), the homo hair horrors of the past are rising like silk-shirted, Daisy Duked zombies, tearing through a screen near you. Pull up a Rent-a-Center white vinyl sectional and dig into a plate of fried wig. These are the Famous Gays of Our Moment. This is our culture. Read more »
SUPER EGO OK, I figure I've got fewer than five readers this week because of, oh yeah, fucking Burning Man, so let's drop all the usual hyperintellectual lip gloss and get intimate. It's just you and me and the scent of a Mariah Carey M eau de parfum sample strip from a ripped-off copy of Glamour in the air between us. First, this just in: there's actually a Cuban drag queen in Miami named Fidela Castrato. Topical! Second, screw the burners for a couple of glorious weeks, the Bay is ours. Let's get go-go-toasted. Read more »
SUPER EGO Sweetheart, the only reason I'd ever lie to you is to score free drinks or get down your $300 freaky-deaky, pizza-stained pipe pants. I'm not the Internet I'm your friend. You'll never have to add two years to my age or subtract two inches from my width. And as for my length well, I do go on a bit. Everybody knows that. (Wait. Do people still lie on the Internet anymore? Lemme check.... OK, back. Yes. Read more »
SUPER EGO I'm not one to get jealous when people I know get famous. Never. As Shakespeare once wrote, "You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying ... in sweat." Alas, I'm flat broke and haven't perspired a drop since I gave up Dexatrim in '03. But my pores are flawless, like tiny alien baby mouths. So I can only grin demurely while my Page Six homeys flash their hairless beavers from rehab. Read more »
SUPER EGO Swooning in the aural vortex of the last How Weird Street Faire, I lean against the central shade tower heavens, it's hot! as four separate whiz-bang DJ arenas writhe at my compass points like electronic eels. Psytrance, tech house, tribal, and jeep beats overlap in a fun fuzz of dissonance: a Euterpean kaleidoscope, if you will.
A shirtless Pan in crooked BluBlockers emerges from the sonic haze and politely offers a welcome quench from his Camelback. Ah, agua ... that's better. Read more »
SUPER EGO "We're trying to reverse the great Berlin brain drain," DJ Solekandi of the Bay Area Beatdrop crew told me somewhat breathlessly. She was preparing to launch Filter.SF, the latest and so far biggest monument to the return of peninsular techno, an "official" Saturday monthly at Fat City, that would spill over ecstatically into 8 a.m. "Is that where my brain's been draining?" I replied, emptying my scotch glass warily. Read more »
SUPER EGO Fuck green I want emerald, I want turquoise, I want veridian. I want shades of chartreuse cascading down the sides of my highball glass andmint cream swirling at the lip of my rim. Mmm. I was going to write this week about how much I'm head over loafers for Lil Mama's clover new vid, "Lip Gloss," and what the deal is lately with so many trash-tragic newbie chicks wearing flip-flops and fleece to the clubs (did I miss a memo from Target?), but it's the Green Issue yay for Earth! Read more »
SUPER EGO Lesbians: is there nothing they can't do? They can run a contemporary art gallery in thigh-baring Versace, tossing back their Paul Labrecqued locks as they leap from their roofless 330Ci. They can go from homeless crack addict to nude Hugo Boss model without gaining a single ounce. They can be a smokin'-hot Latina named Papi, a sassy, brassy canoodler who just happens surprise! to be a whiz at hoops. Astonishing lesbians!
It's 6 a.m., and I think I just asked a mailbox for a light. Nonetheless, it was a cute and sturdy one, unlike the male boxes I usually encounter stumbling home from Nob Hill in the way-wee hours and at least I got that light. Right?