Moby told Bizarre Magazine all about his fears and insecurities, “I’ve never understood why porn made for men often stars studly guys with enormous you know? Surely that’s intimidating to most guys watching? My porn flick would exclusively feature men with normal-to-titchy-sized penises in order to make viewers feel better.”

ANIMAL contributor Foster Kamer wrote an epic 8000 words or so about an afternoon he spent paling around with hercudouche Jared Leto, he of Requiem for a Dream and My So-Called Life fame, and his rocker bandmates in 30 Seconds to Mars. Shit got real when the gang got to Cafe Gitane and spotted Terry Richardson, who’d been snubbed to do the photo shoot for the article, sitting outside and creating a bit of an awkward moment, but shit got really real when Moby walked over to the table.

At this point, the paparazzi were already in pursuit of the guy who played Jordan Catalano on the teevee, catching our beloved Foster in the tabloid photographic crossfire that ensued (see above left), but their trashy tabloid dicks got extra hard when Moby entered the picture (no pun intended):

Richardson laughed at Leto. He didn’t move to greet him, but it seemed friendly. When we eventually got the guys seated, I just, like most of these shoots, did my best to stay out of the scene, and profusely apologized to Terry. I was actually enjoying myself for the moment. We started shooting the guys at the table, but since the Richardson strangeness, more paparazzi had gathered behind us, and now, we had a crowd of onlookers coming from two sides. And then, this happened. A particularly harsh set of sneezes, and you would’ve missed it, but Moby walks up to Leto, and the paparazzi go nuts. Richardson’s trying to decide whether or not to laugh or hide in his couscous. Tourists are now walking in the middle of the street to watch, the other people just eating at Gitane out front look mildly terrified (the French fashion crowd, who can sometimes turn into Gremlins if caught off-guard by the wayward ill-timed flashbulb).

I can’t explain what this was like. The chaos of it all put me somewhere between a strange, anarchic elation and a panic attack. I felt like some poor Barista was about to be read the riot act. The next ten minutes were a strange, slow, blur, like a burned foot of film: we picked up our gear and headed to the next location. We didn’t even say goodbye to Terry Richardson. And who knows where the fuck Moby went.

Foster then traveled with the group to Balthazar and yet still somehow managed to survive an entire afternoon of unrelenting insufferability. Go read his piece for some funny, interesting insights into what takes place behind the scenes in the course of manufacturing a “celebrity profile” piece. Oh, and here’s the piece he spent the afternoon with Leto to write, though the “behind-the-scenes” story is much more interesting.

Tiny-waisted mansy DJ Moby always struck us as the type of guy who’d throw a party that would suck. The picture was always so uninspired and precious: turntables blaring vintage Yaz, ultra modern furniture that you couldn’t even sit on, a bunch of people standing around eating vegan riblets, goblets full of echinacea-infused pommegrante tea…
But that may be just a front so he can pack more young architecture co-eds into his log cabin love shack in upstate New York. As these pictures hi-jacked from one girl’s NYU facebook page can attest, Moby loves a long weekend of half-naked ecstasy lounging and 70′s hot tub hi-jinx. Maybe TeaNY could become the next Dark Room ’03?