Saturday I dressed up for Lovefoxxx, who was gracing the Volar decks. That’s Luísa Hanaê Matsushita, the cute-as-a-button Paulista artista and fablicious international style icon of Japanese/German descent, who is also lead vocalist of São Paulo’s favorite indie synthpop electroclash band Cansei de Ser Sexy (that’s Portuguese for “I’m tired of being sexy.” Kind of like how I feel every time I wake up. Kidding, just on the weekends). After DJ Yeodie’s dirty electro shit, the chubby Lovefoxxx took her place, oozing charisma. She was wearing a bat-winged jacket and totally rocking it. I ran to the front and started pulling vigorous shapes in front of a bunch of local girls. A herd of local cows, actually. Their Cantonese bitch-whines reached my ears, “Yeeee~~~~!” Their repulsion towards me may have been inspired by an elevated conception of themselves. I guess my dance moves were just too fierce and shocked their lame-ass middle-class sensibilities. I decided to enjoy myself, and shut the lid on my finer feelings, but I really wanted to say to them: HellooOo? Bitches, Puh-lease. You’re here to see Lovefoxxx, so stop being so terribly old-fashioned. Don’t hate because you can’t cut grooves like me on the floor. Yeah, this happens to be called the dance floor, not head-nod floor. So go stand somewhere else, like maybe the cloakroom. Ho-bags. Why don’t people just stay at home when they are feeling neg? Why do non-dancers have to stand on the dance floor? This is the expression of all that is sick in a young, un-nuanced bourgeois soul. These dreadfully dismal cows made enjoying the night an altogether difficult experience, so eventually I just had to make myself scarce and rejoin my dance troupe. Lovefoxx suddenly went old school and we got to Pump Up the Jam and Flashdance... What a Feeling. I had thrown my vintage cardigan onto the stage, and going back to retrieve it I passed by the cattle. The most venomous of the herd provoked me: “Lei YAU lai?” which has all the nuance of “Why the fuh are you coming over here again?” Appalled by her ill-mannered question, I leaned close to her ear, and hissed loud enough to make sure I was heard over the electro bleeps: “M lun sik tiu mou mai kei hai mou tsi dou zo tau zo sai le.” (“Don’t fuh around here on the dance floor if you can’t fuh’n dance.”) And then I leaped behind a giant model before the herd could stampede me. Lovefoxxx suddenly got on the stage and said, “Now I’m going to do some singing for you all!” And proceeded to perform CSS’s hit track, “Let’s Make Love.” Oh my God. I died and went to Brazil. I wish she had sung more. After her set, I went up, presented my card and talked to Lovefoxxx in my Carioca accent. “You speak Portuguese?” she asked. I did my whole “Oh, you learn two Romance languages, you get the other two for free” spiel. And that I have an obsessive love for Brazilian music, like samba, bossa nova... “...Tropicalia," She finished the sentence for me. “Jorge Ben!” we both concluded. Anyway, as the bouncer escorted me down the stage, I saw the noxious witch gawk at me in jaw-dropped, rapturous envy. Yes, I just talked to your fashion icon and idol, whom you obvious FAIL to emulate in style or grace. I glared back at her with a “Sorry, you and your posse lack in dignity, fun and comedic genius and get extra Fs for FAILING. F.B., P.S.T.F.F.U!” Look, I know I’m subtle with vengeance.