SUPER EGO Hi, sexy. I'm a bored robot. I'm doin' the strobe-lit worm on linoleum irony. I'm freakin' worn poses in the mirror of YouTube. Klink klank klunk. Drink drank drunk.
Yesterday morning I had a Technicolor waking dream. I was flipping through the Gospel of Judas, standing outside Trendy Hair Fixin's on Seventh and Howard at 6 a.m. under a sky that looked like God shit his underpants. The ice-blue veins of the overpasses crisscrossed in the distance, the distance you feel when you realize your absent-eyed friends are all television addicts. (Not you, though. No, never you.) I was shivering wet in my "Bitch or Slut?" spray-painted halter top, Leslie and the Lys' "Gem Sweater" rocking my knockoff iPod. It was cold, but if I layered on even one spare shred of poly blend, my Bang Bus implants would be partially obscured, and then what krunkhed mens would want me? I'd be childless forever.
Suddenly, my nueva amiga Frankenchick coughed up a pair of fake eyelashes and gasped, "When I was a little kid, I use to own a frog named Sweet Squares!"
It's so boring reading other people's dreams. But, of course, it wasn't a dream. It seemed, just then, my life. And more important, my nightlife. When it feels like your whole being's been dunked once too much in the reborn-again media stream, there are only two ways out: You can either blow up or get down. Drop the cooler-than-thou attitude completely, or go all in and get extreme.
DJ Jefrodisiac's our homegrown version of NYC club whiz Larry Tee, and his wild nights are our closest energy-equivalent to the world's reigning name-drop weekly, Misshapes, in Manhattan. Of course, Jefro's been eating postirony for breakfast since way before Misshapes tossed up its hectic brand of antiposeur-poseur Corn Pops (cf. his long-running Frisco Disco, at Arrow Bar, every Saturday), but no one takes our club scene seriously. We're too dang "out-there." Like most top jocks today, he's less a turntablist than a mood meddler; his clubs may draw in more literal-minded people with one-off Bloc Party B-side remixes but just as quickly drive them out for a smoke with Eric Prydez's "Call on Me" (an endless, cheery loop of Steve Winwood wailing "Valerie" ... eek). The folks who say "fuck it" and stay on the dance floor, anyway, win.
Blow Up, at Rickshaw Stop, is his best joint yet, and every third Friday he and table partner Emily Betty whip their fan base into an antitaste frenzy with records from the outer bins up front and outré sex acts on the side. (What is it with all the het-porn lesbo action at clubs these days? I love it.) If some see the supertight, dressed-to-the-tens crowd as impossible snobs, they don't get it — it's rising above by screwing it all. User-friendly nihilism on a MySpace Mountain level. It's Blow Up's first anniversary this week, and the guests are apocalypto-emblematic: LA street-whore rapper Mickey Avalon, London's shambolic DJ teeth-kickers Queens of Noize, the Star Eyes of Syrup Girls from NYC, and our very own Richie Panic. Too cool for school? Nah. This is school.