AMERICA'S NEXT TOP TRANNY Why would Felicia Fellatio, a 6'7" drag queen from Trashville, USA, get up at 5 a.m. on March 20 and wing it down to the Serramonte Center in Daly City to audition for America's Next Top Model? Well, why wouldn't she? In six-inch fuck-me pumps and a belt whose giant buckle spelled "ORAL" in diamonds, even. Glittery! Read more »
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?
I've got one copy of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace strapped under my right foot, one strapped under my left. The new 1,400-page Penguin Classics translation by Anthony Briggs makes for a great pair of platforms. Read more »
Last Wednesday we unleashed the first issue of our new quarterly glossy supplement SCENE: The Guardian Guide to Nightlife and Glamour to thunderous approval and only a few (disappointing) howls of protest. I want more protest dammit! Where's freakin' Fox News when you want 'em! My nails are too long to dial the right-wing media up. Read more »
Ah, the ecstacy of pomo French theorizing: it feels like sandpaper, tastes like mint, and never leaves the cold bathroom. Sometimes it's a bloody butterfly. Other times it's a tongue on vinyl. And always the future conditional pluperfect leotard. Ce ca?
SUPER EGO The sun-bleached suede pump lay abandoned in a tattered jumble of grasses, beneath a grove of swaying palms, next to a ruined hacienda. Vermillion nasturtiums burst through the hacienda's broken crimson bricks. Embossed on the pump's inner sole, one word: predictions. Suddenly, a pair of untethered horses flashed into view one black, the other sweet caramel, weaving their way to a freshwater lagoon at the tip of the white sand beach just beyond us. The grove lit up like a David Lynch interior. Read more »