Uhhhh.... yes, I'm finally recovering from Pride, which was quite a thing. Here's the quick tea: our SFBG Pulling Pork for Pride party was chill in a good, busy, porky way. Nightlife at the Cal Academy was a breezy, star-filled affair -- with baby ostriches, even! The lovely Mr. at Monarch on Friday was packed with stylish yet soulful dancers (along with Quentin Harris at Saturday's Mighty Real shindig, one of the most diverse parties of the weekend, too).
Juanita More's double-venue marathon on Pride Sunday was a high-water mark: its throbbing, post-runway crowd dressed in custom black separates and dripping vintage gold chains. Hard French was also a rockin' delight, its post-Tumblr crowd dressed in custom neon separates and dripping in silver netting. And Honey Soundsystem was just far too hot-hot-hot (both temperaturewise and bodywise), its crowd pretty much naked except for glimpses of Southwest-patterned motifs, whether shaven into baroque haircuts or flashed from acid-washed scraps. The music at every party was pretty amazing, and I even stumbled upon a secret shisha bar in the TL, woot.
Visual alchemy, fabulous feminist story-telling, and something deemed “hyper-literate busking” abound at 2012’s Queer Rebels of the Harlem Renaissance fesitval, three nights of art and performance (Thu/28-Sat/30) by 21 LGBTQ African Americans.
Part of the 15th National Queer Arts Festival, Queer Rebels of the Harlem Renaissance continues the legacy of the droves of artists, performers, and activists who questioned stale societal standards in a myriad ways during the heyday of the New York City neighborhood's 1920s and 30s creative blossoming: from sensual lyrics of Bessie Smith to the pointed poetics of Langston Hughes, the artists of the Harlem Renaissance continue to testify to the assertion that social causes are rarely separate and constantly progressing.
“People at sex clubs are looking to hook up. It’s usually my safe sex practices that get me turned down more and not the fact that I’m transgender”
I thought it would be cute to conduct today’s interview in a bathhouse sauna. Instead I found myself sipping a soy milk latte in one of the Mission’s many hip coffee shops -- not as intimate of an option, but probably better for my note taking. For once, I was on time, and I patiently awaited San Francisco sex educator Niko Kowell.Read more »
SUPER EGO Zounds and gulldurnit. Figures I'd fall ill right at the start of street festival season, when the weather was gorgeous, the freaks were How Weirding, and two new clubs were throwing open their fresh-painted portals. Why can't my body just obey my mind and be invincible! It's nothing but an overgrown orang-oo-tang. Oh well, I guess when you have only one sinus left — thanks, 1997 — every day of health is a smelly blessing.Read more »
SUPER EGO Is San Francisco experiencing a douche drain? Suddenly a heck of a lot of, er, "upscale" clubs are mediating their bottle service images with creative, musically forward parties. I can't think they've run out of Appletini orderers, or that the real nightlife money is in importing obscure Crosstown Rebels label DJs — although maybe all the bachelorettes really have fled to Castro gay bars and the stiff-collar dudes are glued to their Girls Around Me app? I'm loving finally feeling comfortable (and digging the quality sound systems) at some of these shiny joints. Read more »
SUPER EGO So many things I want to write about this week, if only my delicate, exquisite hands could stop doing these fluttery bird-like motions in front of my gorgeous face. Girls, I've got a serious case of the Vogues, which along with Perma-Nod, Fist Pump, "Woo!"-itis, Twirlfoot, Strobe-eye, and Record Bag Shoulder will soon flood hospital wards and special care facilities nationwide with my rapidly aging (mid-20s) club generation.Read more »