Hey, want to win a signed book and poster from Air?

Last week, French electronica band Air designed us a highly romantic mixtape. As part of the deal, we're giving away a poster for A Trip to the Moon, the newly restored 1902 Georges Melies film for which they've written a new score, as well as a book on the restoration, both signed by Air themselves. (I'm looking at the book right now, and it's awesome.)

Do you want these things? All you have to do is tell us in the comments what you'd do on a date with Air. The funniest story wins the goods. (Try not to get too graphic, please.) If you'd like some more inspiration, check out a clip from the film below, or head to Amazon or iTunes to preorder the album with the film included. Okay, have at it! And don't forget to leave your email address so we can give you your winnings.

Commentarium (16 Comments)

Feb 06 12 - 4:49pm
bulline, urnitoco


Feb 06 12 - 5:09pm

First, we would all bike along the Riviera in penny farthings. The one on the right of that photo would give me his scarf, because my neck gets cold while biking from the elevated altitude of a penny farthing, and the one on the left would continuously look at his hair in any reflective surface. The one on the right and I would get a good laugh at that.

Then, we would go and see Thomas Edison's Frankenstein, because they would both feel that seeing La Voyage Dans La Lune with their music playing would be ostentatious of them. I would secretly mark this as the first time that I felt like sleeping with them.

Apres cinema, we would go for drinks in Montmartre, and bemoan the lack of authenticity in the area's current gypsy jazz scene. The one on the right's argument would be facile, and demonstrate his lack of knowledge of pre-war Parisian jazz, and the one on the left would look at his hair again. I would secretly mark this as the first time I distinctly did not feel like sleeping with them.

I would then sleep with both of them. The one on the left would be a surprisingly tender and selfless lover, and paradoxically, the one on the right would not stop checking his hair. I would learn a valuable lesson about judging effete Frenchmen based on their looks.

Feb 06 12 - 5:48pm

I would invite them over to my place to disassemble my moog and 808 sampler. Then we'd combine the electronics with baguettes thus creating a french robot. We'd all dance with the robot, slowly eating away at its crusty flesh while drinking red wine.

Stuffed and drunk, we'd pass out on the floor. Only to be awoken by the awareness that while we were sleeping we had become bread robots ourselves.

We'd live out what life we had left in fear of birds and rain storms.

Feb 11 12 - 6:22am

poser.. naahhh

Feb 06 12 - 5:58pm

After picking up Nicolas and Jean-Benoît, we'd head off to this little neighborhood bar & grill I know, called Applebee's. Since I know the hostess pretty well since she works at my dentists office, I request the best seat in the house (FYI: it's in the opposite corner of the 'carside to go' door). I insist on ordering for them, since they're from out of town, and I recommend the French Dip Sliders. This is so they could get a little piece of home while here in the states. I also ask for the finest house wine they have to offer, French if possible. After all, this is a big deal. Because we're there before 6, we'd get 2-4-1s. Score! After a long and awkward amount of silence, I figure this is the best time to show them videos of my daughter on my iPhone. Because really, who can't resist seeing pictures of other peoples children. Surprisingly, dinner goes fast. Those French guys can really eat! I offer to split a Chocolate Mousse Dessert Shooter with them, but they refuse. The French are so polite. I don't understand French at all, except for what I learned from old Pink Panther movies, but it sounds like they're tired and want to get back. I oblige and return them to their hotel. But before I let them go, I ask the hotel desk clerk to take our picture. I stand in between them, wrapping my arms around their necks, like the best buds we've become. Before I leave, I offer to email them a copy of the picture so they don't ever forget that magical night in the USA.

Feb 07 12 - 10:21am

pjmudd at gmail dot com

Feb 06 12 - 6:19pm

i would roll a spif, and we would take turns brushing each others hair while listening to sergio mendez.

Feb 06 12 - 9:19pm

I would take them to Brunie airport, for a 12 hour stop over so that we could go back home again. While there we would dream of other airports that have airports bars, make the tough choice between the cafe 'upstairs' with the dry floury muffins, or the brasserie down the other end with the sweaty looking hotdogs. After this we would wander the total of SEVEN other stores that make up the Brunie airport and do laps of the airport lounge which totals about 120 metres in circumference.

Feb 07 12 - 12:31am

I would ask their permission to have a tattoo with their logo on my back.
And let them watch doing the whole tattoo.


Feb 08 12 - 12:03am

I asked if they could play on my party. If they agreed, I would then take them with my rocket to my Lunar Mansion. When the party culminate, I jammed with them. Then we'd be joined with the other guests like Paris Hilton, Arnold Swarzenegger, Hugh Hefner, David Hasselhoff, Lindsay Lohan or Andre Agassi and sing along all night long. When we got really drunk, we went to bathe in Lunar Mare.
sexybunnyno1 at gmail dot com

Feb 09 12 - 5:01pm

first, we have our food and drink stuff then go to their studio because i really need to explore their pieces of tunes there. also i have to invite jarvis cocker and charlotte gainsbourg so we can have on hell of a party there XD we chill out and chat for hours which is one of my fantasy about air guys. finally, i request one little piece of la femme d'argent and one piece of the duelist. I possibly cry with joy..... <3 totally love 'em // isfendiyarogluyum@gmail.com

Feb 14 12 - 4:15am

Is there a deadline for this? Or is it too late already?

[This was not an entry. neolmas@gmail.com]

Feb 14 12 - 11:13pm

[ hotherym@gmail.com ]

Imagine my surprise when an elusive friend spontaneously contacted me to present one of the most abominably inappropriate gifts conceivable: a blind date. “Trust me,” she said, “You're going to love this.”
“When and where exactly is this to take place?” I inquired with extreme skepticism. “Two weeks from today,” she replied, “at the location of your choice.” I hesitated. She sighed impatiently.
My decision felt irrevocable. I disclosed the address – or, rather, GPS coordinates – and thanked her awkwardly before ending the call.

My dread for the following fortnight was probably palpable from space. I spent the entire day before the blind date primping my hair with little more than a dollop of slime extracted from a jar with a badly worn label reading, “P—so-nal L—ri—nt”. Must have been some brand of fancy French hair gel the previous tenants left behind, I thought. Fortunately, it was odorless, unlike the nicely aged dollar store patchouli I had liberally applied to my underarms.

I pleaded with a mythical entity out of pure desperation. “Please, God,” I groaned, “let my date be insane.” I had no idea to what extent my prayers would be fulfilled. In retrospect, I should have had the presence of mind to prepare a cocktail of benzodiazepines dissolved in the cheap Ménage à trois table wine that had been gifted to my roommate by a wayward traveler months before. Ah, the anxiolytic elixir of true love.

The sun was heavy and bloated on the horizon by the time my friend's lizard-shit green Nissan Cube screeched to a dramatic halt in front of my desert abode. She kicked open the passenger side door and beckoned to me with her trademark enthusiasm. While I sported a ratty but snug fitting pair of Level 99 bell-bottoms and complementing salsa stained Corona beer tank top, she was dressed to the nines head to toe with clothes fashioned by brands I couldn't even pronounce. I gawked torpidly.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” she bellered. I threw myself dutifully shotgun and we sped off into the setting sun like a 21st century Thelma and Louise. In that moment I would have preferred that the evening end in a spectacular blaze at the bottom of a high cliff.

Night was rapidly consuming the desert landscape as we pulled up to the abandoned mine. During the stomach-wrenching ride I had downed enough dimenhydrinate to knock down a tiger. “You know,” I slurred at my friend, “Your driving ssssucks.” A heavy chill filled the air. I stumbled from the car and retrieved my oversized sequined hoodie from the backseat before making my way to one of the collapsing shacks. I peered inside at the gloom. “Where is he?” I asked, bewildered.
“Twenty minutes.” she answered as she leaned casually against a graffiti splattered wall of crumbling concrete. “Guess he took an unintentional detour.”

In fact, it was only five minutes before a dust cloud announced the approach of a mysterious vehicle. It stopped about a quarter mile from us, but it was too distant and shrouded in darkness to define details.
“Are we gonna die?” I asked.
“Not probable.” was my friend's only attempt at consolation before she started to fidget anxiously with her car keys. “Well,” she started before pausing to glance at the distant car, “blind dates are never fun with a fourth wheel.”
“Wait, no – don't you dare leave...!” But she did, without so much as a wave and a snicker.

Two figures drew nearer using what looked to be LED penlights to find their way through the landscape of creosote and threadbare tires. I ducked behind my favourite heap of rubble and held my breath. My heart thrummed almost audibly as I listened to the crunching of their ambling pace growing ever louder. So far, this blind date was more exciting than my entire history of romantic encounters; we hadn't even been introduced and already my pulse was topping out around 140. I swiftly retrieved my phone from its pleather holster and poised my thumb over the dial pad.

The two men were near enough that I could hear their murmurs. Not English. Were they Mexican? Wait, no, that's French. French Mexican?


I froze. Sure, the voice was friendly and sing-song, but that was the most unsettling quality.

“Wee know you are heere.”

The second voice was even more disconcerting. Dear god, if ever a voice conveyed “I would like to sensually caress your aorta with the end of my rusty dagger”...

“Wee, erm... youhr frwend...said to us that you were heere.”

I slithered out from hiding and stumbled to my feet. I collected myself and stood brandishing a pocket knife that was more of a glorified box cutter than a proper blade. The two men were standing just a few paces from me, looking utterly bewildered. “Hey,” I squeaked, “I don't know what's go—” I balked as recognition washed over my intoxicated brain. I dropped the knife and squinted. “Whoa.” I laughed so hard they both flinched. “Mon Dieu. You guys?” I stepped forward and thrust out my hand, which they shook in turn. I nodded my acknowledgments; ”J-B, Nicolas — I feel ludicrously honored to be graced by your presence.”
“You, erm,” Nicolas gestured to my left arm, “...have eh, erm, spiderr on you?” I glanced down to see a black widow dangling precariously from my elbow. Some of the best advice ever given to me by a friend was to “cover self in spiders” in the unlikely event a suitor should appear. Such extreme lengths seemed absurd for the situation at hand, however, and I flicked the venomous creature into a yucca.

There was a period of uncomfortable silence that seemed to span an eternity. “So, uh...” I shifted my weight in a pathetic attempt to appear nonchalant. “Why'd you guys park way the hell out there?” J-B gazed blankly toward the horizon as a band of coyotes kicked up a chorus of raucous yodeling. Nicolas reluctantly offered an explanation: “Our car is broken.” I widened my eyes. Now I had every excuse to call my friend and escape this uncouth situation. “Ah,” I gestured dismissively and presented my phone, “I'll get right on that.” She picked up immediately.

“How the hell did you trick these two to—?”
“You just called to ask me that?”
“No. The rugged terrain had its way with their fancy rental. Bring the paddy wagon back 'round, we're headed to Lordsburg.”

The call ended and I was again faced with the daunting task of entertaining two of the most distinguished pop electronic musicians known to Man.

“Hey,” I pointed at my phone. “At least we still get two bars and a fragmented EDGE signal.”

And so it was to be that we would have to entertain ourselves with bat watching, moon gazing, and streaming bits of 'Russian Unicorn' from YouTube. We'd found a comfortable perch atop the old gypsum mine's entrance from which we could see into the valley below. The view allowed us a perfect vantage to watch the steam rise from a nearby sewage treatment plant. Love, I thought, was definitely in the Air.

After a grueling thirty minutes, headlights and dust finally heralded the approach of my friend's boxy transport. She came to an abrupt stop and waited for us to board while she complained about the inconvenience. “Hurry up,” she snapped, “we only have all night”.
“Wait!” Nicolas exclaimed. “We have brought a soorh-prwise forh yoou.” Another few minutes was spent retrieving a Groovebox and amp that had been impossibly crammed into the trunk of their Prius. We managed to pack all of the equipment and our bodies into my friend's car. The illustrious French men guarded their equipment in back as I took shotgun. Off we went, driving down the freeway flash line toward adventures unimaginable.

We arrived in Lordsburg – a town celebrated for its deserted buildings and wandering meth addicts – after a sixty minute drive peppered with stilted small talk between bouts of cranking tunes. The ride taught me that even the most unassuming friends can have contacts in high places, and that sappy 70s love songs are beautifully tolerable while under the influence of mildly psychotropic antiemetics. We clambered out of the car and roamed the empty town on numbed legs before heading to the nearest motel. The place was pitch black and, save for a yowling injured cat on the roof, completely deserted. “Well,” I grinned, “these are our accommodations for tonight.” I stood aside as my friend deftly picked the lock of room 303.

Now, what happened after we entered our room for the night shall remain strictly between myself, my friend, and the French Band. I will divulge that there was a fair amount of knob-twiddling, button-pushing, instrument-petting, and melodica-blowing, broken only by the consumption of cold Mexican food and uncontrollable loss of consciousness.

Feb 15 12 - 12:04am

I met JB and Nic late in the morning in a café in midtown; a place with 60s mod chairs and décor. They were at the same time both shorter and taller than I had imagined. We introduced ourselves between sips of tea and coffee, but they both seemed distant and uneasy. JB was fidgeting like a champion. I tried to jokingly ask if it was a professional pursuit but the language barrier turned that into a slurry of awkward facial expressions all around the table. I attributed their apparent nervousness to the romantic pretense of the encounter and attempted to dismiss that aspect of it by bringing up previously prepared topics: math, dreams, telepathy, love, high school popularity... They warmed up slightly but still were not all there.

This needed to go well, and with beverages and conversation growing colder I decided to introduce a catalyst. "There's an obscure theremin performance going on today. Would you want to check it out?" They looked at each other in their trademark way, a silent consultation, and showed a glimmer of enthusiasm in their affirmative answer.

Nicolas took the front seat of my car and JB wedged himself into the far corner of the back, and we headed north. I had a Malibu CD in the deck and that provided some good distraction as we made our way to the industrial part of town. They asked about the destination and I described it as some sort of interactive concert featuring older electronic and sci-fi instruments. About 20 minutes later we had arrived at a large hangar that looked abandoned. JB and Nicolas seemed uncomfortable with the surroundings but we ventured inside the only door that could have served as an entrance.

Once inside we were greeted not with the expected synthetic bleeps and melodies but rather a mass of strange men in long coats and top hats and women in either Victorian dresses or bathing suits designed a century ago. What happened next was chaotic, but the crowd seized us, threw burlap bags over our heads and hauled us toward what must have been the other end of the hanger. We struggled but it was evident that their endeavor was well-coordinated. I was eventually shoved into a room that sounded small and metal and I heard the other two go through the same thing behind me. A few seconds later a heavy door slammed shut. Definitely metal. I pulled the bag off my head and observed a dimly-lit chamber that looked like solid copper, with three boxy metal chairs along one wall. JB and Nic were removing their own head bags and they looked terrified. I've never seen eyes open that wide.

"We need to go sit in those chairs," I pointed, "so the mission can start." I guess I knew what was going on. The guys seemed more shocked than angry about this fact, but their disappointment was obvious. We all did sit down and moments later we were flung forward with almost unimaginable force. This persisted somehow. None of us vomited somehow. Soon, however, gravity lessened to nothing, at which point some of us did vomit. We were able to converse now, floating around, and I made it clear that there was no destination and we would be in this state forever. I guess I felt my only chance to form a lasting strange love triangle with these two was by invoking Stockholm Syndrome. Not a very thought out plan considering there was no discernible life support. In a few minutes though gravity started to return, this time toward the opposite wall. We rested down onto it and suddenly crashed into something with a sickening crunch. The force of the impact popped open the hatch in the side wall and we hobbled out onto... the moon.

The three of us explored the moon and eventually heard the sounds we expected earlier and found a stage with a bunch of people playing with bizarre musical instruments. We jammed there for a little bit, then I think we went off and made out some. I woke up pretty soon after that and the last part is fuzzy. I can only assume that JB and Nicolas exited a music-making trance at Atlas studio around that time, and were fully cognizant of the fantasy too. That seems just like them.

When I told my friend about it she said, "Well you know why you had to take Air with you to the moon, right?"

"Because apparently I want to kidnap them."

"No, what else were you supposed to breathe there?"

HA - ha!

- neolmas@gmail.com

Feb 15 12 - 12:38am

Me: Hey
Air:(synchronised) ...Hey.
Me: So, Air? I heard some cool tracks from Orbyss from two stories up
Air: ... Ok
Me: She would probably hurt me if I didn't, do you mind signing your clothes and letting me take them?
Air: ... Alright

Me: All of it. She was pretty insistent.