SUPER EGO Every time I think of change, I think of robots cutting my hair. Possibly this is because I ate a lot of toothpaste as a kid. But even more possibly, it's because each time I used to come to on the sidewalk outside the old Transformer hair salon at Page and Laguna, I'd think, "Listen, Wanda. You seriously gotta do something different with your eternal teenage life." Then I'd cheerily swoosh the asphalt off my mismatched Keds and go again.
But all the signs were lately lining up for a cosmic automatonic buzz cut, at least in clubland. Read more »
SUPER EGO To paraphrase an even bigger Gaye than me: what the fuck's going on? Bloodshed and glitter, testosterone and falsies, international hatred and asymmetrical haircuts, Katyusha missiles and fuchsia Converse. It's the middle of summer: Clubland's on fire and the world's going to hell. Everything's a water-based-mascara blur, a streak of tears and soju. Can't we keep the wars on the dance floor, where they belong? Help us, Willie Ninja! Save us, Amanda Lepore! Read more »
SUPER EGO Oh, the endless string of characters! Clubland just keeps ’em comin' in glorious, sequin-spangled kablooeys. Go on, children, do it while you still got freedoms. And tits to you for saving Pride. Pink Saturday was a nightmare, the Dyke March was a walkathon, and despite the amazing turnout — that whole outpatient rehab thing must really be catching on — Pride Sunday found me huddled at the foot of the Tylenol PM booth, cursing the sunlight and desperately searching for something, anything, worth following home. Read more »
SUPER EGO "I'm from Indiana," confided the partly melted drag queen, after nailing "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" in a wicked patent-leather Duchess of Spades dress. "You know we do things different out there. I just got here a couple weeks ago, and when I first pulled my hair out the box, the other girls asked if it was three wigs or one."
"Oooh, I do detect/ I can't go on/ Without you," the latest lesbionic Chaka Khannabe, Leela James, rasps in the spooky reedit of "My Joy" that's dominated dance floors worldwide for about five months now. The mix is by NYC's deep house genie Quentin Harris, whose last smash crack-up, of Jill Scott's "Not Like Crazy," whistled lonely through the graveyard on the grounds of soul's asylum. "My Joy (Quentin Harris Shelter vocal)" is a classic melancholic spine-tingler. Read more »
SUPER EGO Fur suit! Is there anything better? The darling buds of May are peeping through, the beautiful ladies of the Bay are showing out their zirconia belly-bling, and clubby bears are waking up from long, wet winter naps with raging hankerings for fun (as opposed to raging hankerings for little girls in Appalachia). "Lhudely sing goddam!" the poets shout, "it's spring & all." And for once they're right, you know? I feel downright exuberant. Read more »
"You sound like such an old fogey when you go on about 'the club kids.' And how you do go on," hissed a perfectly middle-aged acquaintance sporting a ginormous fun-fur cap with big floppy ears sewn on. Oof. It was bad enough I was frittering my nightlife away at yet another no-host-bar art opening while half my friends were at the GayVN Awards (the "Oscars of gay porn") in LA, another bunch were rocking out at South by Southwest in Austin, and the rest were sunning their itchy waxes in Miami at the Winter Music Conference. But old fogey? What the heck's a fogey? Read more »