SUPER EGO Hilariously, I think there are now more hearings at City Hall about raves than there are actual raves within the city limit, and those hearings are becoming the kind of fun old-school rave reunion events that everyone plans their outfits for. Situationism lives!Read more »
SUPER EGO Despite its fixation on a fathomless past, the goth scene has endured — and sometimes embraced — a cadaverous host of contemporary challenges and styles. From mall-joke commercialization and media scapegoating to cyberpunk, steampunk, Burning Man Mad Maxiness, gamer chic, and now Facebook (not to mention a deliciously strange marriage to industrial music's macho posturing throughout), goth has seen it all and lived to tell.Read more »
SUPER EGO Mardi Gras is one of those time-honored party traditions I always forget. Usually, I'll pass by some unfortunate gay man covered in plastic Miller Lite beads passed out on a Castro curb, a bedazzled mime mask slipping from his gradually unclenching fist. Then I'm all like, "Oh, it's Fat Tuesday," and I totally know what I'm giving up for Lent. I love my Castro gays! They're like a tragic calendar of fetes.Read more »
SUPER EGO Gotta say it: the weekend after a holiday weekend is the best for clubbing. Less pressure, more drink specials, fewer amateurs. Not that I have anything against newbies: like space girls, they're easy, but please. A ton of epic shit I don't remember happened over the Presidents' three-day — hopefully not a Bush threeway — but if it involved the word "epic" I'm certainly glad I don't. Crowded parties are totally my thing (and the gigs I'm recommending below will surely feel cozy). But if I get elbowed in the boob one more time at the bar, I'm gonna go Yoko Ono. Read more »
SUPER EGO It certainly has not escaped my attention that this whole amazing Arab youth uprising thing is taking place during Fashion Week. It's a mitzvah! But while Hunky Beau and I have been busily rooting through Reuters for inspiring pics of various hipster Egyptsters and Tunisians turnin' in out (or, conversely, signs of any uprising under the Manhattan tents — watch out for Joseph Altuzarra, y'all), I've tried to have more than fast-forward fashionistas in my forethoughts and yummy Yemenis on the Bahrain.Read more »
I don't have a lot of pet peeves — that would break my lease. Other than, say, invading a country for no reason, making fun of people with mental illnesses and addictions, refusing to pay taxes because you think people of color are moochers, or ordering Uggs online, still, not much reliably gets my goat, ties it down with friendship bracelets and Danish dreadlocks, and forces it to listen to Ke$ha remixed by Tiësto while wearing Juicy Couture or Pink by Victoria's Secret.
SUPER EGO "Do you think that rats ... think that bats ... are angels?" cracked tall, curly-haired Brendan Lynch, nicknamed Skeletor for kicks, at the opening night of Big Al's Big Ass Comedy Jam at John Colins on Jan. 19. I'm breaking one of the cardinal rules of comedy journalism ("ha") by giving away a punch line, but Lynch lobbed and landed so many Moebius-like thought-twisters — think Steven Wright minus Valium — I'm sure he won't pummel me too much. Yes, I'm flirting.Read more »
SUPER EGO I think we've all agreed to finally bury overused buzzwords like "legendary" and "icon" and "classic" and "mitxirrika" in the cold, cold buzzground. Hype gives me the sneezes. Nevertheless, there are some accomplished parties and DJs making return visits (and, in one case, celebrating a semi-centennial) this week, which and who deserve some fresh superlatives.
I guess I'm still recovering from New Year's Eve? Wow. Everybody still on a roll put your hands up, aye. This week promises to push us ever deeper into the breach, with several offerings from regular parties to freak all out about — and most important, help shake off the ghosts of your hangover. Forget that whole "raw egg in Tabasco sauce with a spoonful of honey" or whatever. The real remedy for weeks-after hung-up woes is dancing, dancing, dancing. And maybe a little hair of the dog. Or, in my case, a little pug named Jose Cuervo, who somehow snuck in to the club in my sequined baguette. Read more »