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10/24/14 11:00am



Searching for a new favorite dinner (or brunch) spot for the fall? Look no further than Fat Goose, a seasonal American restaurant with a focus on fresh, local ingredients.



Fat Goose serves up humble dishes prepared with refined culinary techniques and—above all—a commitment to good food! Thoughtful and affordable cocktails, wines, and beers rotate seasonally to complement your meal.



The space is located on a cozy corner in North Williamsburg, and boasts an open dining room complete with big windows (for better people-watching, of course), pressed tin ceilings, and earthy-hued décor—it’s exactly the comfortable, autumnal vibe we’re craving this season.



See for yourself what the fuss is about! Head over to 125 Wythe Ave (at N. 8th Street) and treat yourself to a meal at Fat Goose!



Open for dinner and weekend brunches – Accepts reservations – Closed Mondays

Dear Audrey,

I’m a woman in my mid-to-late-ish 30s. In the past year or so, I’ve started to notice A LOT of gray pubes. No marker of aging has upset me this way. I have a few gray head hairs, but I dye my hair anyway because I like the look. I use a medium-expensive wrinkle cream, but I’m not botoxing or anything. I feel like I am accepting my age and aging gracefully. Except these pubes just make me cry. I’ve started waxing it all off, but that’s so much work and also feels a little silly. And my husband just sort of shrugged at the wax job. So I don’t know what to do. Dye it? Keep waxing even though I kind of hate having my labia hanging around naked like two pieces of hamachi sushi? And speaking of sushi, I could put that wax money to better use, you know? What should I do here? Am I just being a vain nutjob?

You never know what part of aging is suddenly going to make you go apeshit with vanity. When you’re 24 and it’s all theoretical, it’s super easy to be like, “I’m not going to fight time, I’ll just be a hot lady who ages naturally—tada, feminism!” Then SOMETHING happens and you’re ready to call up the Kardashian/Jenner’s surgeon and beg him to make you into a smooth mask of a human facsimile.

For me it was the first time my lipstick wandered into a little crease in my lip. And like suddenly I was losing it about how old I am and what I’m going to look like in 10 years, 20 years, 30 years, etc. I spent an imprudent amount of time and money trying to fix the problem, which cannot be fixed because, duh, we are decaying corpses marching irrevocably to the grave. No amount of salt scrub is going to Benjamin Button
anybody’s wrinklepuss.

Luckily for you, hair color is something that is easily and permanently fixed. Your upset-about-aging thing is totally manageable, even if you continue to pursue the wild denial tactic well into your 80s. So if you like having pubes, then fuck yeah, dye ‘em. Why not? Why not just correct something that bugs you?

Your husband, bless him, seems not to notice or care either way, so do what makes you happy. I understand that it’s difficult from a self-regard perspective to be that person hanging around nude but unable to sit on the furniture because you are waiting for your black pube dye to set and don’t want to get stains on any of the couches. I get that. That’s not what any of us pictured ourselves being in our near-40s.

But that’s because what we pictured were women who did all that artificial shit but claimed not to, so that real live human beings were left to feel like decrepit wads of garbage when their bodies acted like nature intended. I think the flip side of not letting the patriarchy pressure you into doing beauty nonsense that you don’t want to do is to not let your shame about vanity or your perception that caring about what you look like is sad or unfeminist keep you from doing what you want to look a way that makes you happy.

SEX@THELMAGAZINE.COM FOR QUESTIONS OR COMMENTS

07/17/13 4:00am




It’s too hot out to work: we’re done compiling lists of food you should try or galleries you should visit. Instead, we asked a couple of our favorite writers to send us stories: West Virginian Scott McClanahan, whose recent Crapalachia got rave reviews from everyone from us to the Times; and Brooklynite Jennifer Sky, a contributing editor at One Teen Story, essayist for Tin House and The Rumpus, and a former actress (who played one of the hyena people in that episode of Buffy with the hyena people!). Also herein is the story by Nichole LeFebvre that won this year’s Literary Upstart, in which a dozen writers competed through several rounds of readings judged by local literary luminaries Ben Greenman, Cal Morgan, Katharine Fausset and Maris Kreizman. We hope you picked this issue up on your way to a Coney Island-bound N; stop working and start reading.


Other Woods by Nichole Lefebvre

Victor Charlie by Jennifer Sky

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 by Scott McClanahan



Photos by Austin McAllister

06/19/13 12:15pm



Jewish Museum, RB Kitaj

Jewish Museum
In 1969, painter RB Kitaj made 50 screen prints based on books in his library, stains, rips and all—”an intellectual self-portrait”—and through early August, the museum will have 33 of them on display. Well into September, it will also exhibit a comprehensive retrospective (the first in America!) of Jack Goldstein, the Canadian-born painter and filmmaker who transformed familiar images from pop culture by removing certain details and context, most famously with the roaring MGM lion.

06/05/13 4:00am

This year, the Northside Festival partnered with Converse Rubber Tracks to select some of the openers for our two biggest shows—The Walkmen on Saturday, the 15th, and Solange on Sunday, the 16th—both of them taking place at McCarren Park. We spoke to three of the chosen bands about Brooklyn, about music festivals in general, and about their parents.

06/05/13 4:00am

Our fifth annual Northside Festival takes over Williamsburg and Greenpoint from June 13-20 with a week of concerts, film screenings, and entrepreneurship and technology panels. There’ll even be an expo! Every year our festival gets bigger and better, which can make it seem overwhelming. But it’s not, especially not with this handy guide we created to give you a sense of what you can’t miss and what, maybe, you should experiment with. See you there!

MUSIC

FILM

NEXT


04/24/13 4:00am




Way back in 2002, brothers Scott and Daniel Stedman returned to the United States after a stint in Paris. They brought back with them an idea, based on a French publication called Pariscope, for a free, digest-sized biweekly listings guide that they hoped would become integral to the lives of young New Yorkers looking for things to do. A small staff was assembled, a name was agreed on—a name, it must be said, that would guarantee constant confusion, even 10 years down the road (Oh, you mean Elle, like, the fashion magazine? Ah, yes, of course… The L Word, HBO’s popular show about lesbians in Los Angeles). A year or so later, on April 3, 2003, the first issue of The L Magazine hit the streets, in pristine orange boxes that would just days later be covered in stickers and graffiti like all the others in the lineup: The Village Voice, The New York Press, uh… The New York Sports Express. It hurt to see them vandalized, but it also felt a little bit like a badge of honor, like we’d officially arrived.

And here we are, still. We’re proud, certainly, to have made it through what is widely considered to be the worst time in all of history for print media. We’re proud of the work we’ve done and of whatever small contribution we’ve made to the place we love so much. But we are also really, really, to a degree that is frankly unheard of in the magazine business, disinclined to indulge in the kind of smugness that tends to be such an integral part of special anniversary issues—that thing where you go back and exaggerate your own importance, even when you were mostly just, say, interviewing cab drivers or whatever. So this is maybe not going to be that easy for us.

Which is why, instead of puffing out our chests and patting one another on the back for the next few weeks as we celebrate our first decade of existence, we’re going to shine a light on the people, events and businesses that have helped make Brooklyn what it is today: the New Institutions of Brooklyn, or, The Institutions of New Brooklyn, if you will.

01/02/13 4:00am


Capricorn Dec 22-Jan 19

I recently discovered the existence of something called a “muffin top.” I am not, Capricorn, referring to surplus thoracic lipids hanging out over the Jordache cliff—no, no, not that. I’m talking about a baked good meant to mimic the “best part” of the muffin, the sweet, crunchy top. Ugh. I hate muffins, and I hate muffin tops. I might even hate you.

Aquarius Jan 20-Feb 18

Just stay alive, Aquarius. Stay alive and I will find you. Even if we’re just temporarily separated at Ikea. Unless you end up in Smaland. Then we’re both fucked.

Pisces Feb 19-Mar 20

I’m pretty sick of circus-inspired marching bands. I’m also sick of dogs in strollers. But mostly I’m just really sick of Tuesdays. They’re supposed to be the most productive days, but they’re actually the most depressing. Tuesdays are like April. Cruel and full of hope. If it’s Tuesday, Pisces, stay in bed.

Aries Mar 21-Apr 19

When I was 12, my friend got Public Enemy tickets. I was really excited to go, but as the night approached, I got more and more anxious. It seemed really daunting to go into the city and go to a grown-up rap concert. So the morning of the show, I pretended I had a sore throat. It’s the lamest thing I’ve ever done, Aries, and I still regret it.

Taurus Apr 20-May 20

All that shit you keep talking about, Taurus, that you’re going to do with your life? If you don’t do it in the next two years, you’re fucked. And another thing—STOP TALKING ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO DO. It’s embarrassing everybody.

Gemini May 21-June 20

I hated that Tom Hanks movie where he lives in an airport. You know why, Gemini? Because I want to live in an airport. Mainly because everyone is excited to be going on vacation or being reunited or coming home. Also, the tiny, tiny bottles of booze.

Cancer June 21-July 22

Now that Christmas and its be-tinseled despair is past us, it’s time to buck up and fly right… As usual, Cancer, you probably slept with an elf and threw up on Santa and did all kinds of terrible things, but hell, let’s just look forward shall we? Try not to fuck up MLK Day too badly, ok?

Leo July 23-Aug 22

Do you sometimes think you are a ghost, Leo? A lost soul attached to this mean little ball of dirt, startling cats and frightening spinsters, rattling cabinets and making the TV all fuzzy? What if you’re haunting your own life and you don’t even know it? That would be fucked up.

Virgo Aug 23-Sep 22

You find yourself alone in a forest. You’ve just woken up in a rusted out old VW van. You’re wearing vintage Dutch sanitation coveralls (which, awesome!). You have a gun in your hand and blood on your shirt. What do you do, Virgo? Remember, the moss grows on the north side of the tree.

Libra Sept 23-Oct 22

It’s hard to fit a square peg into a round hole, Libra, but, you know, IT’S NOT IMPOSSIBLE. Maybe instead of enumerating all the reasons why it can’t be done, you should start thinking of how it can be done. Instead of NO all the time, you should start thinking YES. You and I both know it comes down to a bigger hammer.

Scorpio Oct 23-Nov 21

Ah, all those days and weeks and months that flow past us into the great night of forgetting… Our lives, Scorpio, constituent of the smallest of moments, are infinite, like the immeasurable coastlines of Norway. And then they are over.

Sagittarius Nov 22-Dec 21

Everyone should wait tables at some point. Even if you don’t need the money, Sagittarius, you could use the humility. Also, I think I would really enjoy ordering a bowl of soup from you, off the menu: “PEA SOUP,” I would say, and wink.

Image Wayne Thiebaud