The problem is that The Scissor Sisters run purely on sexuality. Their newest album Nightwork is great fun, as were their previous two releases, but the reason I wanted to see them so bad is because I figured all that musical horniness would make for a memorable night out. But sex tends to work better up close than it does in a cavern. So what would’ve been a pulse-pounding, sweat-pouring, crotch-rubbing-through-your-pants-secretly show lost its bite at DAR, and I had no choice but to focus more closely on the mechanics of the band.

One of the actual reasons I can’t watch Family Guy anymore — besides the fact that it isn’t funny — is that I can’t even muster a chuckle at the way the Griffins treat their daughter. It’s not like Meg is even a character anymore, or has nuanced enough facets to make her constant abuse move the “plot” of the episodes along. Instead, it’s easy to imagine that the frathouse meetings of the writing staff devolved into someone saying “Know who I hate? Meg. Everyone else should hate her too. That’d be funny.”

t was a skinny young man, in even skinner jeans, with a vibe of androgyny that would make a burka-clad Grace Jones look like a poster child for the gender binary. He didn’t just look like he didn’t care: I strongly suspect he actually didn’t care. About anything besides his songs, that is. It was a low key performance and a great one. And one that hasn’t been repeated in The District since.

Goldfrapp’s biggest magic trick, though, was her ability to spontaneously shrink herself to the size of my thumb and parade around in a gray metal box. This happened several times during the show, in the middle of songs, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. I was initially thrilled at such an unexpected trick but it gradually grew irritating. Eventually I widened my field of vision and noticed that Goldfrapp herself had not shrunk, but the inconsiderate concertgoer in front of me, who must not have ever been to a concert before, thought it was ok to film long, long swathes of the show with her iPhone. I mean LONG swathes. Whole songs. And this woman was just the right height to ensure that when she raised her arms all the way up her camera was exactly in front of my eyes.

since this column is called “The Indie Rock Fag,” you might’ve guessed that one thing I have ideas for updating is the music that gets played at the Pride Parade, and all throughout Pride Weekend. I can tell you for damn sure that I would’ve thrown myself off a high building if I had to listen to the likes of “I’m Every Woman,” “Bad Romance” or “Single Ladies,” whose level of gay overexposure is soon to rival that of Britney Spears’ pussy. While I concur that many people do love these songs, and they deserve their place, Pride might mean a little more to a wider group of people if they could just hear some damn music that they like.

Of all the frustrating technological mishaps I underwent in the recent Mercury Retrograde, nothing has been worse than my inability to transfer videos from my camera to my computer. Right now I’m sitting on some really awesome interviews with artists like The XX and Los Campesinos. The biggest loss, though, is the fact that I have two supremely gorgeous acoustic tracks from queer musician Chris Pureka — shot at sunset outside Arlington’s Iota— stuck on my damn camera with no ability to have people watch them. So until I can rescue those, I thought everyone might enjoy her new video.

I think it’s no secret that the dominant American culture these days is indie culture. Approximately 60% of last years film releases involved Michael Cera, Diablo Cody is an Oscar Nominee and Grizzly Bear has been featured ad campaigns for Volkswagon and the lottery. Point being, we’re not a group on the outside. And as an obvious hipster homo, I’ve been very aware of the myriad ways that I’m now being catered to.

Going through the entire B&S catalogue at this point in my life had an unintended side effect, too: I had forgotten just how much queer content is laced through the early part of their career. I’ve never been able to enjoy anything post “Boy with the Arab Strap,” and even that album is pretty un-gay, so I’m keeping this list to everything between “Tigermilk” and “The Three EPs.” Feel free to suggest latter period songs in the comments and to let me know if I’ve forgotten anything in general. Thanks and enjoy.

There’s no shame in the fact that even the most individual, free-thinking folks end up looking, acting or thinking like a good deal of others. So the fact that I and every other gay man is on the inexorable path from looking like a lumberjack to looking like a tablecloth shouldn’t surprise be surprising. But it did get me thinking:we’re almost 5 months into 2010 and some clear new trends have developed amongst us. So without further ado let’s take a look a look at what expired alongside old man 2009 and what’s been left instead in the dark smelly recesses of baby 2010′s diaper.

For contrast, take LCD Soundstystem. For a band whose earliest dance floor hits were exclusively about name-dropping and hipster ennui, their subsequent tracks wrap so heart much around their synths and cowbells that they could theoretically score a DeBeer’s commercial. 2007′s “Someone Great” creates a shuffling funk ode to an unnamed, but-probably-a-miscarriage tragedy and “All My Friends” is the most racous paeon to aging since my great aunt’s colostemy bag surreptitously gurgled a few bars of “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” at a chinese buffet.