Club me. Club me hard. And party me even harder, Miss Autumn — you with the burgundy hair, the tiger-striped jumpsuit, and the White Russian teeth. This is a great time to fall out in the Bay: the weather gets warmer, the nights get longer, and there's a new crop of fresh-faced, low-tolerance Berkeley students and their future careers to fiddle with. How naughty. Do let's dive into some fall party highlights, shall we?
Big club news first. Read more »
Fab intern K. Tighe went to Thursday's Fashion Week emerging designers extravaganza, here's the take:
What to wear? The big question. When I decided to attend the 3rd Annual San Francisco Fashion Week, I didn't really think it through. You see, I'm not what one might call a "fashionable" person. Oh, I've got style for miles and miles -- but trendy I am not. I've been wearing a uniform of jeans, cowboy boots and free band swag t-shirts for years -- and the thought of dressing up for such an event frankly turns my stomach a little. Read more »
SUPER EGO Every time I think of change, I think of robots cutting my hair. Possibly this is because I ate a lot of toothpaste as a kid. But even more possibly, it's because each time I used to come to on the sidewalk outside the old Transformer hair salon at Page and Laguna, I'd think, "Listen, Wanda. You seriously gotta do something different with your eternal teenage life." Then I'd cheerily swoosh the asphalt off my mismatched Keds and go again.
But all the signs were lately lining up for a cosmic automatonic buzz cut, at least in clubland. Read more »
OK OK yes I should be getting back to work, but hey -- I'm the clubs columnist, it's my job to be braindead on Mondays. So I'm about to slip into the wormhole of Pandora.com, which got a few good mentions on NPR (I heard this from friends -- I can't get NPR where I live). Read more »
So bar crawls for me are usually literally that -- I've worn out the knees on so many jumpsuits dragging my ass amongst watering holes that I might as well be a member of the orphan chorus in Annie. Hard knocks, more shots, wrecked stockings. Read more »
SUPER EGO To paraphrase an even bigger Gaye than me: what the fuck's going on? Bloodshed and glitter, testosterone and falsies, international hatred and asymmetrical haircuts, Katyusha missiles and fuchsia Converse. It's the middle of summer: Clubland's on fire and the world's going to hell. Everything's a water-based-mascara blur, a streak of tears and soju. Can't we keep the wars on the dance floor, where they belong? Help us, Willie Ninja! Save us, Amanda Lepore! Read more »
Yes, I, Marke B., your friendly ghost club whore, am the Scritti Politti freak on the premises (see Johnny Ray's post below), the kid who grew up with 1982's vinyl Songs To Remember under his pillow right on top of Of Grammatology by the one and only Jacques Derrida. Read more »
The pics from last night's debaucherous Best of the Bay party are just beginning to flow in and be edited by our censors, but here's a couple to whet your whistle, courtesy of Kielbasia, winner of Best Drag Queen with an Accordion. (Accordion not pictured, but very present.) Go, Kielbasia! Read more »