Unforgiving Thanksgiving In Virginia

November 23, 9:30 pm, New York Penn Station:

The squalid, brown masterpiece that is Penn Station is filled to the brim with Rangers fans. It’s the first hockey game of the season and everyone is bursting with beer and hot dogs. They lost, and they lost it bad. There’s a tipsy aggression in the air that smells of fistfights and barf bags. I’m leaning against a rail, and some 50-year-old Uncle Buck type walks up to me and snarls, “You okay there, honey?” My train is 30 minutes late. Every train car is over-heated. I feel like an overripe turkey pre-heated and not brined



November 24, 3 am, Philadelphia:

I get kicked off the train. Public drunkenness. The conductor says, “Sorry, Miss, I can’t have this on the train….” He calls three officers to escort me off in Philadelphia. Me, the petite German, Hispanic girl poses a terrorism threat to the head honchos over at Amtrak. Mayday! Someone is drunk on a train somewhere in the world! “Miss you have a very clean record. Is there something wrong? How much have you had to drink tonight? You seem a little lost,” cooed Officer Anthony. “Let me tell you about my ex-wife.” All I’m hearing is white noise. “Do I need to call a counselor? Did your boyfriend break up with you before Thanksgiving? I have to go do some rounds now. But I’m going to have to take down your number.” I want to take pictures of this exchange but didn’t want to push my luck. You know, the Philadelphia Police force are a lascivious bunch. I give Officer Anthony a phony cell phone number I had 3 years ago.

4:55 am. There are no more trains at this time. I call Greyhound and the next bus leaves at 7:45 am. Jail would have been a better option. Philadelphia Station is slightly more pleasing to the eye than New York’s Penn, but with smellier, homeless people. The only thing that’s open is Dunkin’ Donuts and McDonalds. I sip on water, look at the clock one more time, and lay down on a bench. I immediately smell piss where I lay my head, so I jut right back up into Indian Style pose. I don’t sleep until I get on the next train. There’s an air of helplessness that creeps into my desperate scene. Some cracked up version of Bernie Mac (he’s dead) comes up to me and asks why the cops were giving me a hassle. I look at him and mumble “fuckughwhatdafuggafuckoffzzzmothaohhnevermind.” A law should be passed that bans all “small talk” in train stations after 3:30 am. I feel like a criminal on the run.



November 25, 2:30 pm, Washington D.C. to Stafford, Virginia:

I managed to delete the day before from my mental hard drive. Washington D.C. is riddled with fat homeless people, coked up conservatives, and corrupt staff members. Slim doesn’t exist amongst the homeless in D.C. where public handouts are the bread and butter of the abandoned. At 2:30 I’m supposed to meet my Uncle Byron. He’s German and efficient. I had to be on time. He works at the Department of Treasury. Festive Macy’s provides me a temporary shelter before I meet him. Why am I required to drop $50 dollars on an eye cream? A glamazon Grace Jones type working the MAC counter begs to borrow my “wonderful bone structure” for a chance at her newest blush. I already wear a lot of eye make-up circa 1999 Marla Singer in The Fight Club, and I tell her “I don’t think I want to subject myself to the cocaine whore in a morgue look today. But, thank you.” She smiles back and looks at me as though I just spoke Mandarin.

November 26, 11 am, Stafford, Virginia at Potomac Winery:

I forgot my ID. You come to a winery in Virginia, Ana, and you forget your ID. I announce to the owner I have to do some wine reviews for the wine blog I work for. I’m frantically digging in my pockets but there’s still no ID. I quickly give her my business card. In big bold letters it says Editor and Chief. My Credentials are ignored. All the t-shirts around me proclaim “Virginia is for Wine Lovers!” Complete fallacy. “Sorry, I just can’t. I’ll lose my liquor license. I need to see some ID.” With all my pent up frustration, thanks to Amtrak, I’m pretty convinced I must look my 28 years. Well, I don’t and I’m not flattered. I promise myself that at some point during this ominous and tedious Thanksgiving I’m going to get as loaded as an Ak-47 at high noon in Fallujah, Iraq.

My Aunt Kayelynn and her husband, George, they are powerful lawyers from Texas. They arrive at the Winery with their daughter, Gabbie, who’s only 2. I shake her hand businessman style and introduce myself as Auntie Ana. She gives me “sugars” on my cheek but never lets me hold her. That’s fine with me, because later I discover that she leaves wonderful, shit packages inside her ruffled panties. Later, the owner of this winery makes it up to me by giving me a private tour of the wine grotto under the vineyard. This is for “high wine officials only.” High, I am not, and official couldn’t be further from the truth. She wants me to write a good review, so I indulge myself in her little tour of the label press and wine lab. I’m introduced to Simon, Simonsen, something like that. He’s the groundskeeper and Swedish. I’m left alone with him and pretty sure that in the next 30 minutes we could both do things to each other that would make Bacchus blush more crimson than a Pinot Noir. In the first moment of rare silence I’ve had since leaving New York, we make 10-second eye contact with each other, like two tigers circling around a medium rare steak. Uncle Byron wanders in and his command cuts like a knife “Little Gucci!! Let’s go see if we should stuff the turkey tonight, pus-pus!!!” Yes, there’s a cornucopia of names my family likes to call me. Simonsen laughs. I die a million deaths on the inside. I leave with no wine, and absolutely no steak.



November 27, 12pm, Augustine Farms, Stafford, Virginia:

Thanks for the meat. Thank you everyone for your unconditional love and your unconditional acceptance of my individuality.

I only have one helping of dinner, two helpings of dessert, and 6 glasses of Pinot Noir. I have to do a review of the stuff, and figure I might as well really, really absorb it. I get drunk. Half of the table declares they voted for McCain. In my family, it means you are a socialist if you voted for Obama. I’m pretty happy to be the only socialist in the room. I’d rather not be part of the “Joe the Plumber” tribe. I go to bed at 9:30.




November 29, Brooklyn, 2 pm

I’m home. Didn’t get kicked off any trains. Sober and “fasting.” Dreading the 7 tiny reindeer heading my way. And you know what Santa Claus? If you don’t have some serious Benjamin’s waiting for me in that big ass satchel, then you can seriously shove it.

No White Meat

I did not eat Turkey because I hate birds. Two weeks ago I was on my way to grab lunch near my midtown office, when I was confronted with one of New York's least pleasant occurrences. Lying between Subway and one of those nameless health food stores that sells Luna bars and fat free cookies for twice the price of Key Food was a decapitated pigeon.

This would have been repulsive to anyone, except maybe a budding sociopath, but almost instantly, I thought of chowing on poultry and wanted to vom. Even chicken fingers, which at one point made my list of top 10 favorite foods.

Thinking I was going nuts, I consulted my trusty shrink, Dr. D, who informed me I wasn't. In fact, my reaction was very "common." Although I've yet to meet anyone else who eliminated fowl from their diet after seeing a dead one. She asked if I'd had any negative experiences with birds in the past.

I explained that in first grade, I'd become friendly with a stubby dark-haired girl, Ruby, who lived a block away from me in suburban Boston. She was a friend of convenience. I could tell most of Ruby's stories, like the one about how her short curly hair grew 10 feet in the bathtub, were not true, so when she told me she had a shed of birds in her backyard, I didn’t believe her.

Ruby wanted to show me her beautiful pets and as she opened the door to the old wooden barn, what seemed like hundreds of flapping wings surrounded me on all sides. She'd slammed the door and wouldn't let me out. I was trapped with frantic fowls.

Dr. D. reassured me that after a few months it was very possible my taste for white meat would come back. But it hasn't.

I’m not a vegetarian. I’m a proud meat eating, steakhouse lover, who is opposed to all birds.

My boyfriend of two years has asked me countless times, “When are you going to stop? You’re obviously doing this for attention.” Which sounds harsh, but I’m a bit of an attention whore, so it’s not unfounded. But it’s honestly become a character trait. One that I’m especially proud of this time of year.

-Alyson Gerber

I Know What Worried Me Last Summer: AC Newman

I was worried about AC Newman last summer, when the ginger-headed New Pornographer updated his Facebook status with heartfelt commentary on VH1 realitard show, I Love Money on the daily.

The show mashes up the day-drunk dollies from Rock of Love with Bret Fucking Michaels, Flavor of Love and I Love New York to compete for a million dollars (and the opportunity to eke out a couple more pop culture radar blips so they can still get those lucrative hosting gigs at dance clubs in Clearwater, FL).

I admit I caught an episode or seven of I <3 $$$. J’adore Rock of Love. Fucking sue me. I knew shit was dumb, but I couldn’t sense even a hiccup of irony in Newman’s devotion to Hoopz.

Watching I Love Money is an exercise in brain cell depletion, and it concerned me greatly one of my fave pop songwriters was so taken with it. Would his work suffer too, resulting in some sort of sad Flowers for Algernon kinda thing? Instead of "Sing Me Spanish Techno" would the New Pornographers rollick through songs called "Titties and Cash"?

I had to find out. Newman was at the Bell House Saturday night to debut his forthcoming solo record, Get Guilty (Matador). Tucked away in industrial Gowanus, Brooklyn, the Bell House is what Twin Peaks’ Great Northern hotel ballroom might have looked like if Ben Horne had been an indie rocker: red velvet curtains, latticed oak, high ceilings, giant brass chandeliers.



After escaping the rain I waited in line directly behind Eugene Mirman (always just one degree away from Jermain Clement, sigh). I caught the tail-end of openers the Birds of Youth and sipped a vodka soda. After a lull with sounds of the ’70s playing over the house (Fleetwood Mac, Heart) the Oranges Band played. I saw the Baltimore band years ago in Lawrence, KS, and their music recalls a time when indie rock was just some unassuming, hirsute dudes playing scraggly guitar rock for gas money. Sometimes the bro-show jamming was a little boring. Wholly delightful was the appearance by Oranges’ frontman Roman Kuebler’s dad, who is also their merch guy. Pops called them a “seminal Maryland band,” and urged the enchanted crowd to buy some gear.

Newman went solo for the first time in 2004, releasing Slow Wonder, whose track On the Table ended up on The OC Mix 4. For a guy gone solo, he sure brings a lot of folks with him. Utility players alternated between accordion, horn and keyboard while Newman shared vocals with two adorable girls playing typical cute instrument: tambourines, violins and recorders. I hadn’t seen a recorder since 3rd grade music class with Sr. Sheila.



Like New Porno songs, Newman’s were spun sugar pop stompers, drizzled with boy-girl call-and-response vocals and sprinkled with yeah-yeahs and la-las. Newman repeatedly prefaced songs with, “this is probably inspired from some French film,” but I know homeboy gets all his rhymes from VH1 programming.

While Neko Case has her country twang, and the lupine Dan Bejar is off in Destroyer and all his other solo projects, Newman sticks to what he knows. I’m totally fine with that.

-Megan Metzger

The Mean Greens

After class, shivering in Tribeca I longed for fireplaces in log cabins like we had at my art school in Vermont, or at least my overheated BK apartment - but I wanted to be a supportive friend.

My friends' band, The Kiss Off, was playing for the opening of new green nightclub in NYC The Greenhouse (*joe six-packs, have a beer for every mention of the word green from here on in). It turned out to be in an area of the city made desolate after rush hour.

The band came out to join me smoking and complain about lack of management while we eyed the praying mantis looking she-guard behind the velvet ropes. There was a growing line on the other side of the door and I did not want to be on it. But I was curious to see what an all-green nightclub would look like from the inside (I admired the greenhouse effect outside with glass encased plants, but wondered what would happen when the roots outgrew their casing). Would the toilet paper be organic? Would the ice always be melty to signify the inconvenient truth we live with on a day-to-day basis? Most importantly, would there be any heat?



I discovered no heat when the manager finally strong armed us past the growling bouncer. Inside the lights flickered and the Ting Tings blasted over the speakers. Drinks were *gasp* inducing expensive. Especially for my Bushwick attitude. I nursed one drink and tried to make it count. $12 cocktails, $8 beers, $5 for club soda. My friend with the $5 club soda kept giggling at the ridiculousness. People were a combination of Long Island deep throater and New Jersey glam joker. Thank God The Kiss Off got to go first.





They played some of the newer songs they've been working on, running the gamut from epic guitar and keyboard journeys to rhythm and bass thumpers, either way, they had people push up from the polished pleather booths to dance. It was great to see The Kiss Off let go and flail around in time to their own music. They sounded and looked more confident, like they were having more fun. I guess that's what happens when you have to find your own sound guy hours before the show, but those things only prove how much shit you can handle. The Kiss Off can handle some shit. And if I were you I would definitely go to their show at the Mercury Lounge December 4th.

But I digress.

It was at the end of their set that I let myself look around at the glass coffee tables filled with planted grass and the ceiling with it's undulating waves of crystals and the walls with their strange sporadic lighting and let myself enjoy it for just a little bit. As annoying as it was, it's not often that a girl like me gets to see what's on the other side of those velvet ropes.




- Kastoory

Screw Turkey, Let's Talk Chocolate

I’m on team chocolate. When my friend Sarah Michelson invited me to KB Hall Creative Group’s 11th annual chocolate show, I leapt at the opportunity.



There were at least sixty booths set up at packed Pier 94, devoted to all things cocoa. Each of these booths handed out samples of their best. The highlights were dark chocolate with chili and cayenne pepper, both milk and dark chocolate fountains, chocolate covered orange peels, and probably the most curious, chocolate covered fried bacon strips! Don’t knock it ‘till you try it. The most wonderful sight to behold was an enormous chocolate sculpture of Obama’s head. I made out with it.





Normally tickets are $28 for adults, and $250 if you attend the opening night super hero themed fashion show. Even though I was given a media badge, I still wasn’t allowed in on Thursday, the opening night. Something about limited space…I think they thought I was too fat, whatever. It’s okay though, because I was able to view all of the fashion entries at the general show, up close and personal, the way I like it. With 70 percent of each outrageous outfit made of chocolate, I could easily see why I wasn’t invited to opening night. I might have jumped up on the runway and eaten some important bits and pieces.





Surprisingly enough not everything was chocolate. There were two huge stages set up at each end of the convention center for chef demonstrations of both chocolate and non dishes. I’m a fool for the food network, so I found these demonstrations fascinating. I watched a chef make a fetching alternative Thanksgiving dinner from spinach and pigeon. How New York. There was also a whole flagged off section for tasting savory gourmet foods and alcohol. This was a welcome alternative to the chocolate, because after about an hour there I thought I was going to throw up from the sweet overload. Thank God I was able to stifle that feeling with glass upon glass of imported wine and liquor, each one better than the last.



By the time I had my fill I was somewhat delirious and thanking everyone, which got a little awkward considering some people were just regular goers like myself. They were gracious enough. They probably could smell my booze and coco breath and gave me a break. Don't miss the show next year guys, it's utterly orgasmic and worth the bones.



-Corinne Kassor

Get Out Of My Car/ Get Into My Pants

I’d love to know what it is I’m casting out into the universe that makes me so g’damned appealing to cab drivers. Really. Just in these last odd weeks, I’ve received a marriage proposal, been offered a free ride in exchange for my phone number, and been told “you look real hot tonight, Mama.”



These pick-up artists are pretty much my sole admirers in the L-U-V department these days, aside from the pockmarked darling who works the hot food counter at my deli, and the middle-aged shwarma cart dudes who call me “sweetie,” and hook me up with free falafel from time to time.

My roommate asks if I’m doing anything that might lead the cabbies on. Am I wearing or saying anything that suggests I’m open to some backseat action (meter off, obvs)? Lately my wardrobe choices teeter on demure and unsexed. I’m all jeans and cardigans and penny loafers these days. Very phoned in.

And I’m not one to get all taxicab confessional. Actually, I don’t exchange any more words than I have to with drivers. It’s not that I’m some elitist dick, I just loathe small talk. It’s so forced. If I’m not willing to discuss how cuh-razy the weather’s been, I sure as hell am not going to humor sexy murmurs. Please, good sir, just drive the fucking car across the BQE already. Don’t make some mildly drunk chick named me feel threatened cos you’re feeling frisky. Does this usually work? Do your female charges ever succumb to your advances? I’m gonna guess no. First of all, if you’re doing your job adequately, we can only see the back of your head. Like, what if you turn around and you’re not even cute? Deal breaker.

I will admit I find the attention mildly flattering. Sometimes it feels like if it weren’t for these hacks being so hot for my snatch, no one else would be. So, yeah, there’s that. Maybe I’ll find a way to transfer my mojo from the backseat of the cab into the bars or the church basements or the Laundromats or the wherever-place-people-go-to-meet-other-people-on-a-romantical-level. That way, when I turn the cabbie down with the old “I have a boyfriend” lie, it would be true.

–Megan Metzger

Obamanator

After my sweaty second behind the black voting booth curtain, I hopped on the L train to escape Manhattan. I headed for the emptier streets off Lorimer Street. I was on my way to the Union Docs (www.uniondocs.org) community house, a non-profit documentary artscollaborative and the home of a friend. I hoped this would be the site of a triumph I could almost taste.

Before most of the guests even arrived, Pennsylvania and Ohio had already been Obamanated, and the popping of balloons seemed to signify last gasps of air escaping from the war hero's wounded campaign. As the anticipation mounted and the smiles broadened, visitors donned candidate masks to enjoy the arm wrestling table--Palin imposters won most of the bouts. The line at the makeshift bar lengthened. For $2, you could get an "Obama Mama," a pineapple and rum concoction, or the "Cindy McCain Special," a good ole can of Budweiser, served with a fistful of painkillers for an extra $0.50. Just kidding!



When change officially swept over Union Ave, the dangling Bush pinata was promptly destroyed, while "Na Na Na Na, Hey Hey Hey, Goodbye" and "Signed Sealed Delivered" exploded from house band The Weight. We shook the building with dancing that would have summoned the cops on any other night.






Drained and elated, I jabbered to my Spanish speaking cab driver about the new man in the White House. Whether he understood my words I don't know, but with a huge smile he declared, "It's very good.”

Well said amigo.

-Jake Englander