SUPER EGO Springtime in Clubland's looking gorgeous so far: it could totally move covers and dominate the next cycle. A special double pinkies up to all the fab promoters throwing AIDS ride-run-walk-collapse fundraisers and shining limelight on the No on Prop. 98 campaign. I'd air-kiss you to death, but it would crust my Cover Girl Hipster Neutral No. 140 Lipslicks Lipgloss. Read more »
SUPER EGO Positivity can we get some, please? Sure. Zing! Spring's come bounding from its musty, dusty closet like a newly out Floridian, little rainbow fanny pack ablaze, itchy pink nipple rings jingling. Poor green thing! Isn't it up to us to lead her, tripping and grinning, into the limelight fantastica? Aren't we already there? Change, unlike Aqua Net and Paco Rabanne, is in the air. The clubs, they've gone azalea-crazy, bursting with neon irises and tuneful fuchsia streaks. Cocktails mysteriously grow stronger in our hands. Read more »
SUPER EGO Clear the runway! Clear the runway! She's got a Target elastic waistband and too many Walgreens L'Oreal home highlights in her shag and she's about to crash-land drunk off her Lucite Shoe Pavillion fuck-me pumps and into my $30 Blue Lotus powertini, with guarana extract, caffeine, taurine, and B vitamins 3, 5, 6, and 12. Somebody call Grey's Anatomy on her jiggly, glitter-thonged ass, stat. Save me, Dr. McCreamy! Save my exorbitant cocktail!
SUPER EGO Sorry to sound so breathless this time around, nightlifers, but I've got a couple of hot caballeros waiting on me in a beat-up Camry outside, and, you know meter's running. I swear I'll sprinkle some cybernetic glitters on your Facebook if I get back poke me or scam us up some apologetic kumquat caipirissimas from the Americano. If you're lucky, I may even stop spewing hot chunks of drama long enough to let you get a word in edgewise. Read more »
SUPER EGO Guilty! I'm totally real-time guilty. Yeps, frenz, I'm that spastic whore on the dance floor whooping like a neon cough, flinging my Mary Kate triceps up when a thump drops in the mix. If a club has one of those heinous black lights at the door, I sneak in the back so no one spots the glowing spunk on my skirt or my phosphorescent VCR. I always ask for extra antioxidant-rich lychees in my pomegranatini, to offset the American Spirits. OK, I've blown the DJ. Read more »
SUPER EGO So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good-bye, Ms. 2007. Don't let the 404 error smack your red-soled Christian Louboutinclomping, MySpace bisexual ass on the way out. And take your tired $500 embroidered jeans, Belgian sunglasses, Hollister panties, Affliction Ts, and fake Bape reeking of your mama's Target fabric softener with you you know, the one with all the circa-2004 Louis Vuitton rainbow logos on it.
Screw you, Marc Jacobs. Bite me, DJ Tiësto. Read more »
SUPER EGO "You know, I like to sit around in my hotel room after the show in my bra and panties and say to somebody, 'Get me a Rémy Martin with a water back, goddamn it! Thank you.' I know they like it, and I do too."
OK, I wish my life were like that I'm allergic to cheap cognac but holy crap. Read more »