I am expecting nothing less than total success in my weekend’s plans. What do I mean by that? I mean that I’m going to PUT IT DOWN like an old mangy dog with a lamp shade around its neck. Tonight I’ll be eating pizza at local joint where the charming but gruff waiter intimidates you into finishing the garlic bread. Despite claims that Goodfellas was not filmed in there, there is a framed photo of said waiter and the entire cast by the bathroom, clearly taken IN the restaurant. Then, I will potentially go see live disco. I have no idea what this means but I’m open to new and strange experiences and I have no doubt that with today’s technology disco can in fact, be done LIVE.

Tomorrow will be coffee; thousands of gallons of coffee followed by heated discussion with the only Republican I know and like (other than my pops). I’ll spend the rest of the evening convincing her that she should support the good guys and will ply her with peer pressure and booze courtesy of the narrowest dive bar I’ve ever been to in my life. It’s maybe 10 feet wide at it’s widest point.

Sunday’s sabbath will be spent on my bike, my first solid ride since a cab sent me over the handlebars a month ago. This ride will be a symbolic middle finger to my achy shoulder and lingering fears that I will again fly off my bike and onto the pavement. It will be the divine worship of the smooth and effortless domination of city traffic and an affirmation that total peace and solace can be found while seated on a fast moving bike.

An hour of This Old House will remind me again that I’d like to go and build houses for Habitat for an entire year down in New Orleans. Additional coffee will remind me I have a lot of work to do right here in Brooklyn and that said trip will not be possible this year. I will mentally applaud those who actually spend their time doing this kind of thing. As the caffeine wears off my feet will go up and I’ll lamp my way into a comfortable snooze, knowing that the weekend, was a complete and total success; pizza and disco live, Red guys turned Blue, and inner peace restored. Amen.

UPDATE: below (more…)

Our very own Tuffie will be dropping some of her literary brilliance at a reading alongside none other than the world-famous Susan Orlean this coming Wednesday. A’yup, that’s it, bing bang boom, here comes fame and fortune! Show up and show love, info below:

Free Range Readings
6:00PM Wednesday, March 5
Cornelia Street Cafe
New York, New York

We were just as shocked as all of you, but I got the invite via a faxed, handwritten, translated, then xeroxed, then hand copied again note inside into a Snoopy greeting card. Here’s what it said: “Most honorable Tabernacle, Our Great-LeaderFather requests your Seating at the great Pyongang House of BBQ for a friendly exchange of culture. Call me back.” Needless to say, we’ll be going. It’s time to bust this sucker (of a country) wide open. We’ll be bringing frankincense, myrrh and some I Love NY t-shirts.

Megan from the LBC is back with more wisdom from the great beyond…and The Streets:

“What it do, Aquarius? Early today, some mark ass bitch tries to get all up in your grill. Try not to get too large with dat ass. It’s important to ya baby momma that you don’t get locked up. All you gotta do is blaze a spliff and wait for dat shit to pass. And hey, it’s Friday! You’ve been makin dat chedda all week and now its time to keep it gangsta. Take your boo to a nice dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. Don’t let them haters get it twisted.

Aries, you trippin! How you gonna try and ack like dat? It’s time that you check yo’self. Yo homies ain’t down for you at this particular moment, so today you gots to put one down for them. Catch them boys on the re-up, break them off a piece, and yo gon’ be on the way to makin’ it all good. And make sure to spit some sick game at the hunnies tonight at the club. There’s one down ass bitch waitin’ on ya, go get her.”

Forgive me for sounding like Andy Rooney, but I must now exorcize my antiquated curmudgeon within. First, let me state that I am a fan of science, of progress, and of technological advancements that serve to enrich our lives and to better our society at large. As a kid, I loved Mr. Wizard (R.I.P. Frank Herbert) and Inspector Gadget, and went apeshit for Sci-Fi movies like The Last Starfighter and Short Circuit and, of course, the Star Wars trilogy. And, these days, I fucking love my iPod, enjoy the go-anywhere convenience of my cell phone, and seriously relish the increasingly painless visits to the dentist thanks to that sonic blaster thingy that totally rules. Heck, if it wasn’t for modern technology, this world would’ve never known the infinite ecstasies of the Back Alley Tabernacle, quite possibly the greatest innovation known to humankind. Now what kind of world would that be?

But there is another side of me, a more Unabomber Manifesto side, which finds many new technologies rather disagreeable. Playstations in living rooms and moving walkways in airports have only proven to thicken the thunderthighs and bloat the bellies of America’s greasy obese. And these automated phone services usually have me futilely screaming at some calm voiced android on the other end of the line, nostalgically reminiscing about the days when real human beings provided customer service. But what really gets my cloned goat are these new-fangled wireless cell phone earpiece jobbers that all these uppity asswipes are sportin’ these days. If you’re wearing one right now as you read this on your Blackberry iPhone thingamabob, I’m sorry if I offend you, but I hate that ridiculous thing on your head… (more…)

A tractor trailer truck carrying crates of chickens flipped over on the BQE last night releasing chickens and feathers into the surrounding hood. The driver was fine but as we speak, there may be hundreds of chickens on the loose wandering around the city confused. I gotta know, where are these chickens gonna go? Are they any match for the rats, pigeons or even the occasional hawk? It makes me kinda sad because I’m almost positive these country chickens don’t stand a chance. We are currently taking donations to build a chicken coop in the parking lot of the Tabernacle in the event any are rescued. And don’t forget to mark your calendars for the B.A.T. spring BBQ coming up in April! Peace be with you.

VOLUNTEER WANTED: 6th GRADE BOYS BASKETBALL COACH

I read the line like I read much of my son’s school newsletter, with my best impression of Zen detachment. As a parent of a first year kindergartener at Summerfield Waldorf School, I’m overwhelmed by the volunteer opportunities and the parent confabs. I want to get involved, be a super-parent, but the reality is, in my full-tilt denial of my status as a 30+ year old, I still stay out too late and am neither predictably reliable nor organized.

Yet, two weeks later when I read: SITUATION CRITICAL: 6th GRADE BOYS B-BALL COACH NEEDED! I knew I had to act. True, I know nothing of basketball drills and fundamentals, but the thought that these kids were going to play coach-free tore at my heartstrings. What kind of message is that to these kids? Out of several hundred parents, nary a soul gives a damn about your roundball dreams? Bah. I picked up the keyboard and dialed the number. An hour later, I was confirmed as Head Coach. Talk about awesome. I’ve always feared elementary school coaches. Now I am one. The feeling is equal parts cool and creepy. (more…)

Somehow, the man came to his senses and realized he wasn’t going to win this one and honestly I’m just glad he threw his weight behind my main man, B.O. In his honor, we dedicated our masthead to the man with a stolen picture from this article. I’m hoping now that Castro is going to put his feet up, that we will lift the dumb embargo we’ve got on Cuba. Let the maduros and Cuban sandwiches FLOW! I want there to be a Disney World in Havana in the next 6 months and I want the next MTV Beach House to be in Guantanamo. Hell yeah.

Last weekend summed up: Four shoots in three days. 8 rolls of medium format film, 9 pack of polaroid film, even a few shots from the iPhone.

And all I want to do is more. I think I may have a problem. Anyone know of a Photographers Anonymous meeting in the LA area?

This, this is Ariel. She was the second shoot on Sunday, and though I was constantly frightened of catching her boyfriend’s cold during the whole shoot, I had a great time. The key? Donut holes, which I bought just before I arrived. Nothing greases the wheels of a photo shoot like some sugar and dough all balled up into a tasty treat. Ariel is one of the Tarina Tarantino girls, I should really just give them their own set, she’s the 1, 2, 3, fourth girl I’ve shot who works at the Tarnina Tarantino jewelry store over on Melrose. I tell ya, they sure do hire some quality staff. Sure, Ariel hadn’t seen Big Trouble in Little China, but nobody’s perfect.

Always aiming to keep it fresh, the BAT will now be giving out astrological tips from the depths of the hood. Today’s horoscope is sent to us from Megan in the LBC:

“Good lookin out, scorpio! Today is gonna be a day to keep it grown folk. Make sure you tell yo set to keep it on lockdown while you handle yo business. Don’t be swayed by them bitches trying to stick you for your paper. But watch yo back, boo, schemers be tryin’ to step. Make yo play, but keep yo dome on rotate, scannin’ for those layin’ in the cut.

Holla back, capricorn! It’s time to break out the champagne glasses and mothafuckin’ condoms. Today goes dumb in a big way and you’re the P-I-M-P in charge. The world is yours, if you can keep yo mind on your money, and yo money off the rock. Take a page out of ya man big baby jesus’ book.
aka osiris
aka odb.”

Submissions wanted!! Send in yours TODAY!!!

There’s no doubt, we are in the deep and frozen icy butt crack of winter, and I want OUT. Until today I had forgotten what the sun looks like, it’s been gray for… days…. I’ve been blasted with sub-zero wind gusts, soaked with torrential rain and in a final insult, had my umbrella blown to pieces. Literally every 25 feet I walked a new part of my umbrella came off. First it went inside out. Then the entire handle came off. Then the springs, buttons and little metal bits of umbrella shrapnel clinked to the soggy ground. I’ve had enough. I cannot drink or eat through this winter as most native New Englanders might. No amount of shepards pie or split pea soup can fix this. There is not enough whiskey or Guinness to handle this. I need to FACE IT head on. What does this mean? I have no idea, but listen here winter: I’M GUNNIN’ FOR YOU!

Marcy is hot, yes? So it should be easy, just point the camera at her and fill up that roll of film.

But it ain’t. Because some of my best shots are of Marcy, and so I’ve unwittingly raised the bar. I can’t just take a “decent” shot, can’t have Marcy looking at the photos going, “hm,” “that’s nice,” or even, “that’s cool.” I’ve done some damn good work with Marcy, and so I owe her magic.

It’s hard work, folks, HARD GODDAMN WORK, to be this good.

I’m a big fan of multiple orgasms. Who isn’t game for a round two, three—even a round four? But by then, most any woman is going to require some kind of additional lubricant, not to mention an energy-boosting carbohydrate with some Gatorade to wash it down. A shower and a power nap are also viable options at this point, otherwise, at least as far as I’m concerned, my rapidly beating heart is bound to explode out of my chest and knock my partner out cold.

That said, this past weekend, during a slumber party at a friend’s, I came, shall I say, ear to ear with a woman who engaged in a more theatrical brand of extended-version sex than I ever thought humanely possible. I mean, no one, no one, can go as long as this chick did and still be able to walk right in the morning, nonetheless jump back in the ring at 9 a.m. for round 341.

What should’ve exhausted this girl even more, was the accompanying soundtrack she created to go along with her hour-upon-hour-long sexcapade. The noises escaping her vocal chords were no mere inadvertent moans of excusable pleasure. No no, hers was a combination of ohs, ahs, yeses and other verbalizations no one needs to hear (nonetheless read about), coupled with just straight-up operatic expulsions. I imagine she could make some good change belting this shit out on the metro. (more…)

Our official theme song band (not to be confused with our gospel choir) is Salisaw. They are playing tomorrow in Brooklyn for free. I’m planning on going for two reasons: one to jock, the other to rock. Flyer below, don’t be a turd and get your butts over there, PRONTO. Flyer below… (more…)