Super Ego

Super Ego: clubs, nightlife, parties, bars | SF Bay Guardian

Super Modelo

Mex-cellent adventures!
|
()

superego@sfbg.com

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 »

The new woof

Welcome to Bear 2.0
|
()

superego@sfbg.com

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 »

Les goofballs

Taking it all in at Bohemian Carnival
|
()

superego@sfbg.com

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

Rutting madly

Clubbing '07: an ouch behind, a look ahead
|
()

superego@sfbg.com

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 »

Ringing it backwards

Suddenly, she was attracted both ways
|
()

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 »

Talk to the hand

Madame is back -- on the arm of a new man.

|
()

Outsourcer

Fat kids, tranny tiaras, and NonStop Bhangra
|
()

superego@sfbg.com
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 »

Economy class

Hidden kitchens, Jet, and a wahoo in Oahu
|
()

superego@sfbg.com
SUPER EGO "Please pass the grilled Moroccan spice-rubbed lamb loin," I dewily asked the cute investment banker from Philadelphia on my left.
Me and Hunky Beau were seated under the Saturday stars at Escondida, a "hidden kitchen" — a.k.a. renegade restaurant in someone's home or backyard — deep in the Outer Mission, at a table that also included four hip lady lawyers and a postgrad neurobiologist from UCSF who makes headphones for birds. (Don't ask. Read more »

Escape pods

What, exactly, is "the love"?
|
()

superego@sfbg.com
SUPER EGO Ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space. Moonlight kisses the city's knockoff gold metallic Fendi slingbacks, the ones with the sparkly diamantine heels, and slides up the back of its dime-store disco-ball dress — a little slap here, a little tickle there — until it reaches the ragged sunburst of hair at the nape of its neck and launches into daylight, where the real party is these days. Read more »

Famez!

|
()

superego@sfbg.com
SUPER EGO Does it count as gay if you're in love with yourself? That was my philomasophical rumination as I obsessively re-YouTubed Kevin Federline's icky, icky "rap" debut on last month's Teen Choice Awards. Because if loving yourself counts, then I agree with most of the 200,000 teens who posted comments: K-Fed is gay, honey. Too gay to know she's a train wreck.
Yet I simply couldn't tear myself away. My chica Anna Conda had just got fagbashed in the Tenderloin. Read more »