Sebastien Tellier

(Photos: Nicole Wasilewicz)

At first I thought: this must be a joke. Some sexy, pervy looking Parisian papa in sunglasses whose electronica album (aptly titled Sexuality) is only available in American Apparel stores and contains a song called "Sexual Sportswear”?

Then I listened to the album, felt like Air and Daft Punk made music babies and remembered why I love Paris. I started dancing and haven't stopped. And that's just when I’m listening to the album (and the awesome Midnight Juggernauts remix of "Divine" that my brother posted on his blog).



Seeing this man live completes the equation - which adds sweat, panties in the air, wine and glittery sports coats multiplied by the aforementioned dancing and taken to the fifth power by whiskey.





Amazing.

-Lauren Mooney

Catwoman in Dogtown

I’ve always been a cat person. I identify with their inherent hunger for individuality, their effortless cool, their blasé attitude towards humanity. Also, they have really cute tummies and ears.

Growing up, our household was sans feline because my father was deathly allergic to them. He made jokes about strangling kittens with his bare hands or tossing them in gunny sacks and sending them down a river. As a sensitive eight year-old, I failed to see the humor. His teasing and my indignant silence created an emotional chasm between us. My mother, who also longed for a housecat, among other things, exploited my ill feelings towards cat-hating Daddy to fool herself into believing I‘d be cool with her leaving him.

“Wouldn’t you just love to live in a little house with a sun porch and a kitty?” she would ask.

”Yes!” I exclaimed. Having a sun porch was only second to cats on my list of things I was deprived of as a child.

“But, what about daddy?” I queried.

“He wouldn’t come. But you’d get a kitty!” she countered.

”Can we name it Dangermouse?!?!”

Dirty pool, Mom! Anyway, they divorced (surprising, huh?) and I got the kitty I was promised. A giant Maine Coon. Mom named her Cleo, after my great-grandmother, which was fine. Cleo didn’t really look like a Dangermouse anyway.

At 19 I got my very first apartment on my own, which meant I could get my own cats and name them whatever I wanted. My mother’s cat had a litter, and I picked out a boy and a girl. The brother was a tabby I christened Cletus the Slack-tailed Kitty (he was born with a crook in his tail). Cletus’ sister was a tortoiseshell calico beauty called Stella Marie You’re My Star (I was going through a PJ Harvey phase). They were my bestest buds. Cletus was like, obsessed with me. He watched me shower. He spooned me. He wrapped his little orange paws around my neck and massaged my shoulders. Best boyfriend ever.

Ten years later, Stella’s in kitty cat heaven, Cletus is someone else’s boyfriend, and I’m petless. Strange feelings are stirring inside me. Urges I've never felt before. Puppy urges.

Dogs represent everything I’m against. They’re born with an innate sense of co-dependency, a blind love towards humanity, a dorky disposition that reeks of desperation, and a tendency to eat shoes and dirty underwear. Yeah, okay, they have really cute tummies and ears, but still, not even the cutest lil’ puppers can make up for all that slobbering neediness. Right?

I’m not so sure. I see some pretty cute little buggers messing our Manhattan sidewalks. I wave at them as they’re walked by. Terriers, Labradors, Poodles, Labradoodles. My friend Chris from back home in Kansas City sent me a photo of his brand new beagle puppy Blossom, and my head nearly exploded because she’s so g’damned adorable.


(Photo by Angie McDaniel)

My father, who’s since remarried, lives in Massachusetts with the rest of my family, including a miniature dachshund I named Klaus. My dad loves Klaus. Even if he gets a little sneezy around him, he is not compelled to send Klaus down the river in a gunny sack. I love Klaus too, mostly because the little bugger’s more feline-acting than your average dog.

So, why this newfound interest in newfoundlands and their brethren? Is it because I’m fast approaching 30, meaning I only have like 10 years max to get a baby in me before I’m all dried up?

In my sexually reckless early-to-mid 20s, I never really thought about biological clocks ticking and all of that, aside from the occasional pregnancy scare (thank gawd for Plan B!). Now I realize time’s passing me by, and if I want to make sure at least one living creature will love and need me as long as she shall live, I better get preggers. Or a dog.

And since I haven’t met a dude I want to share a meal with, let alone a child, looks like this cat lady just might do it up doggy style. Yeah, I went there.

–Megan Metzger

No Bueno

People. Out there. In the World. Who go to restaurants. Or salad bars. And order food: Stop saying bueno. 

And gracias for that matter. 

You were raised in Connecticut. You sound ridiculous. 

Here's what I mean: While ordering my salad from one of those Choose-a-Topping places yesterday, the kind where a bunch of Mexicans toss greens, freeze dried chicken and anything else you’d like together before passing it along to another who stands, poised with gourmet axe, asking “is the chop?” before mauling your roughage into small bits, I was dismayed to hear the woman next to me. “I’ll have the shredded mozzarella. Do you have portobello mushrooms today? Oh! And a few water chestnuts, too. Bueno.” The Mexican nodded and chucked the lady’s chosen ingredients in her plastic bowl. “Gracias,” she replied. Now, is that really necessary? I mean, it's one thing if you can carry out the whole "I’ll have the shredded mozzarella. Do you have portobello mushrooms today? Oh! And a few water chestnuts, too?" exchange in Spanish. That's pretty damn cool. 

But to say all the complex shit in your language then casually throw out a "good' in theirs, is that really fair? Like, if I were a salad bar worker in Japan and some chick came in and said "Shi Hu Tsa! Ga Na Nu Nook Dye! Nu Ki Ka! Neokasha. Fi Fruck Dong!....thanks" would I really be psyched that she said 'thanks' in English and not 'I'll have the three egg omelette with spinach and feta, hold the yolks'?

No. I would prefer she not tease me like that. Similarly, there’s no need to be rolling out the bueno. We are not in an open air market in Cuzco. We are on 55th Street in midtown Manhattan. Stop patronizing the good workers. Your busboy doesn't care that you can say the most ubiquitous word in the Spanish language. It's not helping him feel more at home, like you are his sympathetic American ally, or like you two have anything in common. You don't. You are going to spend thirteen dollars on your lunch then go back to your office overlooking Central Park on the 44th floor. 

If you want to be your dishwasher's friend, invite him over for dinner. Until then, can we ease up on the faux-bonding with the immigrants?!

It kind of makes my stomach hurt.

-Sarah S.

Something Fishy in the Fountain of Youth

Working on the Upperish West Side I’ve caught Barbara Walters and Anthony Kiedis lunching al fresco--not together. I’ve spotted a very dazed Jeff Goldblum stumbling around Columbus Circle in a porkpie hat.

One not fun sight is a species of woman I call the rich fish lady. Rich fish ladies are that rare breed of older women who’ve “kept it tight” way beyond menopause. I see RFLs every day, swimming upstream on Broadway for a hair appointment or a light lunch, wearing size 24 Seven jeans, clutching handbags that could pay my rent.



Their hair, an exuberant blonde, is perfectly coiffed, framing a taut face that looks like something out of the fucking Twilight Zone (see episode “Eye of the Beholder”). Mothra-sized designer sunglasses shield bulging eyes that peer over emaciated cheekbones. Then, there’s their mouths. Their fucking mouths. Puffy, protruding, all spackled with gloss, taking up 57% of their total body mass. You’d think with faces that cartoonish these women would have animated expressions, but they’re capable of only mild anger or irate surprise.

I know I’m not breaking new ground here. www.awfulplasticsurgery.com and its ilk have been around since Al Gore invented the Internet. I just don’t understand how any of these RFLs think that having a puffer fish face equals a “fuck you” to aging.



Maybe it’s easy for me to be all preachy, since I’m a genetically blessed older-than-she-looks twenty-something, but what’s wrong with looking older when you’re, well, old? Yes, our culture values youth over the aged, but there are benefits derived from getting old and wizened.



Being a little old lady guarantees a seat on the subway. Younger people look to you as a sage, and if they’re really nice they’ll carry your stuff. You are no longer obliged to follow exhaustive pop culture and current events (who cares! You’re dying soon anyway!) You can be kooky like Edith Bouvier and no one pays any mind ‘cause you’re an old bat and if you want to venture outdoors wearing support hose and a housecoat it’s totally cool.

If you’re an old lady, chances are you have some grandkids. Everyone loves their grandma! Unless, that is, you have one of those mean, VC Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic kind of grannies. If that’s the case, I’m sorry.

I was lucky enough to have a grandma’s grandma. Loretta baked cakes from scratch for dessert every Sunday, slipped $20s in birthday cards and said stuff like “bless her little heart.” After a visit, she’d stand at the window and wave to you as you drove away.

She passed peacefully in her sleep this past October. At the funeral, my family displayed photos spanning Loretta’s 90 years. As a young woman, she was movie star gorgeous, like a brunette Carol Lombard to my grandpa Lester’s Clark Gable.



It was a revelation to see her young, vibrant and gorgeous. I’d always known her as cute lil’ grandma. It confounded me even further as to why the rich fish ladies of the world are terrified of aging as gracefully as Loretta. Wouldn’t it have been grand to see Dolly Parton age into a sweet old lady like June Carter? Dolly’s my fucking homegirl and I’ll never disrespect her ‘cause she’s a precious angel sent down to the Smoky Mountains straight from heaven, but damn, girl, your face belongs in an aquarium.

–Megan Metzger

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