With Tuffie in town for the holidays, it was necessary for me to drag my old ass out for a night at “our” bar. A crew of six strong rolled in, three dudes, three dames, ready for free booze and a wee bit of booty shakin’.

Several screwdrivers (in me), several cocktails and a shot of Jäger (in Tuffie) later, we found ourselves in the back room dancing to the musical stylings of a DJ who at first apparently wanted to turn the whole joint into a glow stick-waving, pacifier-sucking rave. The bass came down so hard my fillings shook.

And I don’t have fillings.

But our friend, the owner, is nothing if not sensitive to the needs of his customers, and so, like a rough sixth inning, the DJ took herself a break, a fresh face took his place behind the turntables (that was for the old folks, there are no such things as turntables anymore, it’s just a Macbook with lots of stickers on it), and gone were the electronic remixes of Olivia Newton John songs. Instead it was a slow progression through all that early 90s hip hop & rap that all the white kids loved.

I sometimes wonder if, secretly, all black kids in the 90s were listening to the Black Crowes and Metallica’s Black Album, while all the white kids listened to The Chronic and De La Soul.

Bars, still strange and alien to me, but all worth it for the photos of Tuffie seen above. That girl is a pure joy to watch, and boy does she love the old “back that up” dance move!

Estelle Getty’s tongue on Golden Girls was so sharp that it could cut through an aluminum can and then cut right through this tomato without a resharpening. Money back guarantee. This is just one of the myriad illuminations I had whilst reposing at home tonight in lieu of a bachelor night in that juicy, seedy, mealy big apple. My first real night home since the holidays and I, for a change, chose to order in, saddle up, pipe down, and lay low. My confinement was not without action, though:

Some sorta serious disagreement between the couple upstairs got so heated that after I muted all electronics in my proximity I could sorta discern one of them telling the other one to “fuck off and go to hell”

Drained a bottle of red that I bought at the Sanford-esque liquor store a half block away. They carry booze, Ben and Jerry’s, and nothing else. The wine came from a vineyard I once visited ten years ago on an interesting road-trip across America

Gave Mr. Boots, the cat, a nickelbag of nip. No peer pressure required. He then went totally apeshit, raced spastically from room to room, and then crashed the fuck out

Watched a movie–Half Nelson–and mid-flick I had to pause it because there was some sorta altercation brewing right outside my window, which turned out to be all flex and flashing of plumage. Good movie though

Got a phone call from New Orleans, from Florida, from Vegas, and from New Orleans again. I had the time and the rare tendency to forego screening and instead just answered the damn phone and talked at length. Other than that I spoke not

I usually feel guilty just chilling now that I’m in the NYC. Everything is always out there waiting for my enjoyment, and life is short. But tonight, at the risk of sounding thirty-one, I ousted the devil from my shoulder, grabbed Grandma Pearl’s quilt, and radiated sedate as I waited for oh eight…

I just watched a skate video I made in 1988 with my childhood pal. It was shot on a Fisher Price PXL2000 which, I shit you not, used AUDIO tapes to record on. The picture is horrible, audio not so bad… go figure. One thing is for sure, in 1988 I wanted to be a pro skater. I had some seriously garbage tricks nailed down, the boneless, the sweeper, it’s more sassy cousin, the airwalk sweeper, and of course the cornerstone trick, the bomb drop. These tricks amounted to a lot of noise making and hopping on and off my board, somehow in retrospect I’m not shocked Stacy Peralta wasn’t banging on my front door. I remember seriously wanting to go pro and skate for Powell Peralta. The video is short, but it’s proof both that I was dead serious about my dream, and that Massachusetts was a very long way away from sunny California.

I don’t know a lot about Benazir Bhutto. I don’t know whether she was a good person, whether she was just a part of a hugely corrupt system, whether she could’ve saved Pakistan or just helped it to continue the way it was going.

I do know that she was assassinated today.

I’m not Pakastani, but when I heard this morning that a man on a motorcycle had fired at Ms. Bhutto, then detonated an explosive, blowing himself up, it affected me. I’d been thinking about assassinations a lot these past few days, talking about the deaths of the Kennedys, MLK. About how certain murders act as historical focal points.

But most of all, how things are the same above and below. A small child can be killed in the middle of the street by a gang war with the same speed at which a national leader can be gunned down. Things are the same, and they are horrible.

Watch your backs today. Competition will be fierce. Don’t matter what your belief system, today is a holiday. For everyone who loves a deal, this is the high holy day. People have been waiting in line all morning for Best Buy to open. For K-Mart’s doors to welcome them in. They will buy things that, while cheaper, they still cannot afford. They will push and grab and tear from others’ hands. They will buy things they do not need, they will return gifts from folks they do not like, they will wait in long lines and drive around parking lots for hours looking for a spot. Today we become savage, for today we prize things above people. Forgotten is yesterday’s sense of brotherhood, the sense of family and belonging.

Go shop today, brothers and sisters, for today you will see the true face of America.

With our Christian brethren stuck in their homes celebrating an event that most religious scholars agree didn’t actually occur on this date, the world is our oyster! Here’s a few things to do with yourself while you wait for the world to start again:

See a movie.
Or several. I used to watch between three and four movies a day on Christmas, as the city was Night of the Comet empty.

Eat Chinese food.
Those joints are always open on the Christmas, knowing that we Jews are wandering the city, much like we did in the desert, looking for a place to stuff our jesus-killing faces.

Play on the web.
With everybody hanging out with their families, the internet will move much faster. Unless all those Russian cybercriminals are also taking advantage of the holiday.

Call up your Christian friends.
Laugh at them over the phone while you listen to their dysfunctional families in the background arguing over the fact that the food isn’t as good as last year and why can’t they just get through one Christmas without everybody fighting and why doesn’t that one girl find herself a boy.

Religion is weird. I wasn’t really raised with any dogmatic direction, so perhaps that’s why I think so. A couple of weeks ago my lady’s very Baptist sister was in town and, as is her habit, she journeyed across the bridge to that other famous tabernacle, The Brooklyn Tabernacle. And we went with her, very early, hungover and pickled with the sins of Saturday night. It turned out to be an interesting experience.

The Brooklyn Tabernacle has a Grammy winning choir, which is more like a musical army, which in essence is a salvation army I suppose. But they didn’t have bells and cauldrons and wait outside of Wal-mart in the cold, jingle-belling for your loose change. They had boisterous harmonics and sang about “Emmanuel” and lifting names “on high”. They were impressive in their sheer aural force, and they baptized me with their power.

The preacher seemed like a nice enough guy, humble and gentle in his message. Not a very fire and brimstone kinda dude. More of an “All you need is love”, John Lennon kinda dude. I dug his jive I suppose. Some folks there were really feeling his sermon, and they made it known in no uncertain terms by jumping up and down and screaming out a lotta amens and hallelujahs and the like. It was quite a scene. (more…)

Businesses are going soft, people are getting lazy, and those not on flights are throwin down some vacation days. But not the B.A.T., the Word needs to get out and we’re going to do just that. Though the world hasn’t seen it to date, I’m going to be blogging LIVE from my MOM’s HOUSE! Yezzir. I’d blog from your mom’s house but you’d get offended. I’m also going to be reporting LIVE from my empty neighborhood through the Christmas holiday! It’s gonna be completely off the goddamn chain. Stay tuned for Uncle Jemimah who recently attended service at the very inspiration for the B.A.T., The Brooklyn Tabernacle. Happy Hollerdayz and G’Bless.

I have the circulation of a 90-year-old and it sucks. Trying to purge this chill from my veins has not only resulted in more than a few unpleasant experiences (see Niacin Overdose), but has also been utterly unsuccessful. That is, until today.

As of today, I am now the proud owner of a brand-new, down-feather lined, faux-fur hood trimmed, water-resistant North Face jacket that I challenge the cold to just try and penetrate. “I don’t fucking think so,” my jacket tells the wind. In fact, she’s so serious North Face couldn’t just name her the Artic Parka, they had to give her an extra C, resulting in the much more powerful moniker—Arctic Parka.

Setting me back a mere roundtrip plane ticket from coast to coast, I choose to call her my Upright Sleeping Bag. She is worth every penny and I would’ve paid more, even if it meant that I’d have to give up my apartment and sleep outdoors—I’m confident she can keep me that warm. Besides, there are plenty of bums out there to get friendly and cuddle up with too.

In fact, I may even try Central Park tonight, as it would be a nice change from the sauna-like conditions of my apartment where the most I can wear is a tank top and booty shorts. It blows my mind—yesterday morning I literally worked up a sweat eating a bowl of cereal. (more…)

This past weekend, my honeybaby lovedoodle and I were poking around in a junk shop on the NorCal coast when I stumbled across something of a holy relic: A VHS copy of Planet of the Apes. No, not the recent retread by the overrated (it kills me to say that, but I have to finally admit the truth) Tim Burton. No, the real movie; the 1968 classic starring the Omega man himself, Charlton Heston. At the time of purchase, I had no idea the cinematic powerhouse was to shortly shatter a vow of willful ignorance I had maintained with great diligence for much of the year.

Let me explain. About eight months ago, I swore off all media. This is a big deal for me, as I’ve been known to those who can stand my presence as “Mr. Read Everything in the World about Current Events and Politics” for the better part of two decades. Yet, I realized that with an election cycle upon us, there’s no better time to shut it down. Eighteen months of empty promises and bullshit campaigning I thought I could do without. Until, that is, Heston the lost and ever virile astronaut (as Heston plays only Heston, character names are trivial formality) reminded me of my duties as an American citizen. By the time Chuck planted Old Glory in the soil of the alien world, I was itching to get my hands on a Gallup poll, any Gallup poll.

I never knew that Planet of the Apes was a prophetic film, but behold the True Parallels:

Charlton Heston = The U.S. Voting Citizenry. Strong willed and cocksure of direction with absolutely no clue what’s going on in the world around him. Hell, he doesn’t even know what world he’s on.

Evil Ape Doctor Zaius = Huckabee, Romney, Giuliani, McCain, Clinton, Edwards. Protector of both government and faith. All share plans for exploitive government, differing most widely on type of faith promoted (god/dollar/self).

Astronaut Dodge = Barack Obama, of course! The only black astronaut/candidate, he’s sacrificed right away (just like Star Trek) and put on display in the Museum of Natural History.

Chimpanzee Zira = Yours Truly. Exceedingly good-looking and impossibly intelligent, she understands everything right away and is willing to sacrifice her knowledge.

Impossibly Hot Babe Nova = At first I thought she was my honeybaby lovedoodle, but then realized she’s a mute brunette, not a verbally engaging blond. While I haven’t found a parallel for her yet, I will! Stay tuned as I dig deeper into the POTA mysteries.

By the end of the film, everything became clear to me once more. In the final scene (SPOILER ALERT!), Heston/The Voter finds the destroyed Statue of Liberty and realizes where he is. While his pre-post-human hottie looks on, he pounds on the sand and yells, “YOU RUINED IT! YOU DESTROYED IT! YOU IDIOTS!!” That’s us, yo. Every four years, it’s our fists slamming in frustration, angry with ourselves for being fooled again.

Thanks, Chuck, for opening my eyes and ears once again open to the brittle promises of the political heavens.

Tod E.S. Brilliant works wonders on the world through his own blog todbrilliant.com.

Marinated radishes, various spicy slaws and unidentified seafood chimichanga-looking wraps, and the meat, the sweet goddamn delicious marinated meat, grilled at your table! This is the single reason anyone would brave what they call in these parts “wintery mix”. This is Korean BBQ, well worth being pelted with hail. God bless.

We were recently contacted by a minister, said he believed he had found common cause with our little tabernacle. He said his ministry was on the self-same path as ours, sent us a recording of a recent sermon he conducted. He shared it with us, so now we’re gonna share it with you.

So open your ears, turn off your iTunes, tell that gossipy co-worker to shut it down, and give here a listen to Pastor Tower Canon:

Download link 

This is short notice for a TALL event. The front man of this band was my roommate. No wait. RoomBROTHER. He recorded jams in the secrecy of his bedroom which sounded dope even through the walls. Then last month dropped them on the world with little advance notice. If you wanna be the cool kid who can say they were at his second show (only cool kids like me were at the first), you best get to this one TOUT SUITE. It will not be a band kept on wraps for long. You heard it here first (second). Ch-check it… (more…)

Apparently I have pointy elbows. They poke through my sweaters and shirts. Maybe my ancestors used the famous “Eagle Talon” Elbow to defeat other clans like the “Hooknosed O’Connelies” in the Highlands of Scotland or the “Sharp-Titted Mongolites” on the Himalayan plains, but now, they just wreck my stuff. Better than having a pointy ass I guess.

I don’t know about you guys, but when I see Paul Rudd 3 times in one calendar year, I start to get worried. I have good friends in the city that I haven’t even seen 3 times in the past year. So to keep running in to Paul Rudd like this, I start to wonder if maybe these aren’t random sightings at all?! Here’s the lowdown…

Sighting 1: Paul Rudd and entourage enjoy same football game and Yuenglings as me at Wogies in the West Village. Later Paul Rudd occupies barstool next to mine for approximately 41 minutes.

Sighting 2: Paul Rudd and blonde-headed accomplice imbibe what appears to be Tasti D-Lite on cake cones as I drive by in my Nissan Frontier, somewhere around 8th Ave. and 23rd St.

Sighting 3: Paul Rudd and entourage enjoy surprisingly okay Sondre Lerche concert at Maxwell’s in Hoboken last night, only about 10 people away from myself. My Paul Rudd paranoia sets in.

I know it’s usually weirdos like me stalking celebrities, going through their trash, making perverse shrines out of their fingernail clippings and used deodorant. But I’m starting to wonder if Paul Rudd might be stalking me. I have noticed that every time I see him he is always gabbing away on his cell phone, probably calling his own answering machine to dictate the details of his me sighting for stalker-ish posterity. I also noticed that he never seems to notice me, at least outwardly, probably to preserve his cover. Well, Paul Rudd, star of Clueless and Anchorman fame, your cover is blown. And I thought nobody was reading this blog…