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SUPER EGO Fuck green — I want emerald, I want turquoise, I want veridian. I want shades of chartreuse cascading down the sides of my highball glass and mint cream swirling at the lip of my rim. Mmm. I was going to write this week about how much I'm head over loafers for Lil Mama's clover new vid, "Lip Gloss," and what the deal is lately with so many trash-tragic newbie chicks wearing flip-flops and fleece to the clubs (did I miss a memo from Target?), but it's the Green Issue — yay for Earth! Read more »

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SUPER EGO Lesbians: is there nothing they can't do? They can run a contemporary art gallery in thigh-baring Versace, tossing back their Paul Labrecqued locks as they leap from their roofless 330Ci. They can go from homeless crack addict to nude Hugo Boss model without gaining a single ounce. They can be a smokin'-hot Latina named Papi, a sassy, brassy canoodler who just happens — surprise! — to be a whiz at hoops. Astonishing lesbians!

Oh, wait. Read more »

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SUPER EGO Tweet-tweet twitter. Tweet.

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?

Twoot-twitter. Read more »

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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 »

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SUPER EGO "If you're snorting coke out of the hollow end of a Parliament filter, you just don't care anymore," quoth supervixen Beccalicious, standing outside Madrone Lounge, spattered by a light drizzle. But I did care — I do care. The night's a mosaic of throbbing subbacultchas, and there're far too many amateur jibber-jabberers hopped up on Bolivian marching powder out there already, waxing the floor with their tongues. Shut up and dance, say I. Read more »

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SUPER EGO How many calories in a Quaalude? Who's the secretary of the interior? Read more »

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SUPER EGO Oh! Yes! It hurts! Oh yes! It hurts!

My virtual buttocks are on fire.

After my last little column about stuff I'd enjoyed in Clubland over the past year, I got spanked online for downplaying some of the Bay's ongoing nightlife trends. Namely: breakbeats and house revivals, dubstep and kiddie rave, Burning Man, Burning Man, Burning Man. (Isn't he burnt yet? Sheesh. It's like a spiritual tire fire already.) That's fine, baby: hit me one more time. Getting spanked online was my former profession. Read more »

SUPER EGO Hustlers are like trees — you can usually tell how long they've been around by the number of rings around their eyes. Or how many teeth they have left, if trees had teeth, which they don't, but hey, I'm never one to not stretch a simile to Andromeda and back. They pay me to do it! It's my elastic destiny.
I was counting the rings on a hot tattooed man-product at the bar closest to my heart, Mr. Read more »

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SUPER EGO You may remember Madame, the giddy grande dame of this glorious puppet show we call life — or at least gay life in the ’70s. Chanteuse, raconteuse, free booze — the legendary Madame does it all. When I heard she was out of retirement and performing onstage again, I leaped at the chance to grill this delightful morsel about her recent whereabouts. How could I resist? We have so much in common. She's a sasspot. I'm a sasspot. Her new show is "It's Madame with an E!" I'm Marke with an "e." She only comes alive when a man sticks his arm up her behind. Read more »

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SUPER EGO The best thing about childhood obesity is I can fit in all the clothes now. Dora the Explorerwear, Juicy Couture for Kids, even Mary-Kate and Ashley Teen Look. No door, no path, no avenue is closed to my cheap and whimsical fashion tastes. No "Barfin' BILF" tube top for toddlers can squeeze me out of my juvenile fancies. Thank you, overweight preteens of America! Viva los junk foods!
And so goes the mind. Read more »