Super Ego

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

Economy class

Hidden kitchens, Jet, and a wahoo in Oahu
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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"?
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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!

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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 »

The transformer

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superego@sfbg.com
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 »

Clubber’s index

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superego@sfbg.com
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 »

Ejaculoid!

Super Ego vs. Ejaculoid: A wild time with MC Cookie Dough and Dee Jay Pee Play
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superego@sfbg.com
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 »

Nth loop

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superego@sfbg.com

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."

BRUNCHRead more »

Oh, behave!

Super Ego gets schooled at the Be Nice Party
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SUPER EGO  Read more »

Our gang

Fag Fridays: 10 years of faggoty goodness
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"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 »