SUPEREGO ADDICT "That techno shit ain't nothing but a bunch of clowns tripping their balls off to car alarms," the old saying goes. And it's almost exactly right! If we're still in the 1990s which, by the way, also saw over-tattooed punk and swing revivalists nodding off to black tar and a swarm of bronze-bleached gays mething out to Bryan Adams circuit remixes when they could pry away from AOL chat. (You thought it took forever to download a naked JPEG in 1997? Read more »
SUPER EGO It's been a coon's age (is that racist?) since I lifted the bloody glitter-crusted rock of alternaqueer nightlife and peeped with prickled horror at the writhing wigged creatures of darkness beneath. There's a lot going on this month, so buckle up your birdseed boobs and ride, baby, ride. But first, I've got to give a special screechy shout-out to Faux King Awesome and his filthy-excellent trash-club blog, www.dragslag.org. Read more »
SUPER EGO "I've taken plenty of cheeseball photos just because I wanted to play with some boy's nipples," longtime club snapper and braided-bearded pixel elf Eric "ShutterSlut" Stein (www.shutterslut.com) tells me over the phone. "Some people take nightlife photography way too seriously. Read more »
SUPER EGO Enough with the gourmet street food carts, already. What this joint really needs is some gourmet street cocktail carts. I can barely see it now: fixie-powered blenders, home-brewed Fernet shots, "shit coke" smuggled Cuban rum margaritas with powdered-sugar rims and laminated dollar-bill straws, bacon-wrapped hot dog martinis, 5-HTP power boosts ... Anyone for an heirloom finger banana and Prather Ranch taurine daquiri? Read more »
SUPEREGO Obama's been in office for a whole 200,000 blog centuries, but times are still so tight I have to make my own mascara out of Marlboro butts and melted-down pantyhose. Why won't he magically fix everything immediately! Flasks are making a flashy comeback on the club scene, spontaneous street parties are all the rage, and 2 p.m. at Dolores Park is the latest rave time for the hip, half-naked underemployed. Read more »
SUPER EGO Killer apps available soon for your iClub phone, besides the one where you can fake-snort Adderall, that epilepsy-inducing portable strobe, the virtual cigarette, and Goddess help us all the Paul Van Dyk BPM counter and 3-D glow stick:
Cops Are Here (for bathroom line clearance).
Midi Jammer (to fuck with laptop DJs).
Instant Breakfast. Better Breakdown. Red Bull Unburp. Take Back What You Told Her. What's Your Name Again? Third Ear Corrector (for trainwreck mixes). Read more »
SUPEREGO Oh, who the hell cares what I think this week? It's summer and our party hormones partymones are totally going apeshit. Before I get into the upcoming party musts, though, I will leave you with one quasi-abstract musing. The thing I'll miss most about analog TV, besides the term "vertical hold," is the sound of someone frantically banging the top of the box to stabilize the picture. If anyone's thinking of sampling that in a killer track, now's the time. Read more »
SUPEREGO "Do you consider yourself a diva?" It's one of those ridiculously rhetorical nightlife, especially gay nightlife, questions like "Does this pair of angel wings and neon bob wig make me look dated?" or "Is that muscle queen by the speakers dancing or frantically signaling with both hands for me to call him on his cellular?"
SUPEREGO I recently found myself in Navajo Nation, munching on frybread at Kate's diner in Tuba City with Hunky Beau after rocking out to, I shit you not, tech-navajo on the local FM station in the rental. I looked fantastic. We'd just witnessed a fierce two-spirit working the sandwich counter at the Bashas' supermarket down the street. She/he looked fantastic. Read more »