I am an ageist in that it is a rare moment indeed when I befriend, nonetheless date, any human whose age is smaller than or equivalent to mine. I tend to find members of the younger generation self-absorbed, egotistical and unaware of the fact that their skinny jeans will, in fact, one day be revealed as the cause of some terminal disease. People aged twenty-seven and under lack perspective in that to them, there’s only one—theirs. This, my friends, is fucking annoying.

That said, I am currently head over heels in love with a twenty-three year old. Yes. Two, three, as in born in 1985, as in four years younger than me, as in we wouldn’t have even attended high school together, as in yes, a Baby Young Gun.

Aston and Demi notwithstanding, I can’t help but be amazed at how ingrained the social mores of this world are in that at first this genuinely felt slightly awkward to me. But after more than three months, I’ve decided whip out my under-eye cream and flare my nostrils at those who call me cradle robber. This boy has swept me off my feet and here’s why:

Baby Young Gun is the cutest most precious member of the opposite sex I have ever had the opportunity to lay eyes on. When I first saw him I took a triple take, no joke, and that never happens to me.

Baby Young Gun doesn’t play mind-fuck games. He called—not texted—the day after we first met to ask me out. When the day arrived, it was pouring rain, but I later found out that he arrived a half an hour early to the general area where we had agreed to meet in order to “find a nice place” to take me.

Baby Young Gun does not play by the “rules” because he’s unaware they exist. On our first date we were already discussing gas and diarrhea. Our third date? Dinner with his grandparents, his great-aunt and uncle and his aunt and her boyfriend. Perhaps a little early, but I could’ve cared less. He has always called me when he wanted to and said whatever comes to mind. “If you ever fart in front of me I’ll propose,” is just one example of his innocent, yet absolutely genuine nature that will always make me smile.

Baby Young Gun is the sweetest boy I have ever met. Besides my parents, no one has ever told me so many flattering things. It flustering, because I’m totally not used to it, but in a good way. My mind doesn’t know how to react and/or process so my heart just swells a little and I bury my head in whatever’s available.

Baby Young Gun makes me laugh, but never when he’s trying. Whether it’s seven a.m. in the morning (when I have to get up to teach) or three in the afternoon, this twenty-three year old can send me into a fit of giggles with one line. One night, he was to meet some of my older school friends, fabulous women who are or have been married and have grown-up kids. “Oh, so they’re around your age,” he replied.

I could go on, but I’ll stop here because it’s probably getting disgusting. Has Tuffie turned into a total sap? Probably. I mean, what the hell am I writing about after having been MIA from the BAT for three months? Is Tuffie a cougar? Likely. I mean, my favorite movie, “Sixteen Candles,” came out before he was born.

But does Tuffie give a fuck? Far from it. Baby Young Gun makes me happy and I know that’s all that matters. I don’t feel this way about people, ever, and I never thought I would. So some times I feel uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with myself, but then he’ll say something like, “One two three, poof” (code for he has to fart), and I’ll snap back into just living in the moment and tell him to go for it.

Caught a case of food poisoning last Saturday, which put the whole day’s plans in the blender.

Ever since a particularly rabid case of food poisoning about six years ago (lasted a week, caused me to lose ten pounds in five days), I’ve been more than a bit sensitive to under-cooked food. As a result, I’ll end up poisoned at least once a year.

Good times.

But this time I refused to let it keep me down. I had a photo shoot to…shoot.

So I went. Met the model and my assistant there. And got right down to business.

The business of lying on my back, damn near delirious, while my assistant did all the shooting.

But I’ll tell ya, the model was going through some issues, and I had all the answers, man. The pain, she really crystalized things for me, allowed me to cut through it all, get to the heart of the problem.

And of course the model didn’t listen. They never do. And I told her that, too, pain having made me wicked honest.

Then I went home and had bread for dinner and slept 12 hours.

Now it’s back to lying and clouded thoughts.

Katie West is a Toronto-based photographer, and one of the first photographers whose work I saw and fell in love with on Flickr. Since that time, two years ago, when I first saw her work, we’ve become great friends, and I thought it’d be interesting to take a look at her views on her art. So here we go: (more…)

Big congratulations to BAT founding member Scott (Danny Eagle) Moe and Jennifer Tuozzolo, who went and got engaged late last week.

All of us her at the BAT would like to offer our condolences, as this is the end of any fun they will ever have for the rest of their lives, as they sink into the black hole of matrimony, where all hope dies.

But hey, IT’S GONNA BE THE BEST WEDDING EVER!!!!!!!!

And I promise not to mention, during my over-long speech that I’m sure you’ll let me give, about that time Scott killed a hooker, or Jen’s short stint as a Taliban training officer.

MAZEL TOV, BITCHES.

I was gonna write up my thoughts on the election, but I’m lazy.

So I asked my mom to do it, instead:

Debra (San Diego)
November 4th, at around 8:40 pm PST, I had an out of body experience. Barak Obama was declared the 44th President Elect of the United States of America.

I am a long-time activist and a proponent of civil rights, women’s rights and human rights. I believed in the utopian premise of one world, one people as a free thinker in the 1960’s and worked to call attention to the cause. I took to the streets to oppose the war in Vietnam. In the 1970’s, I fell in love with a man whose family emigrated from Panama when he was seven and whose roots were Jamaican, Haiitian and African. (more…)

I was gonna write up a piece on how I felt right after the election was over, but I’m lazy.

So instead I went and asked some folks I know. Here’s what they had to say:

Leiana (New York)
“Your President Elect, Barak Obama”….and then we were all suddenly on the street, great masses of us, spilling out of bars and apartments and corner bodegas, cutting through the tense silence with screams and cries. I hugged everyone within arms distance including the crackheads who live on my sidewalk and the gangsters and the yuppies and the hipsters. Tearfully and joyfully we spun each other around and whispered “we did it, we did it” into each others ears. This was my new America. I called my fiance to tell him that we could think about having babies now, this new brave world was finally a place I could call home.

Two hours later, after Jermaine had been aggressively following me around the bar for an hour begging me to go home with him and “make a Barak Obabma,” and insisting that “my man din’t have to know” and the bartender asked me to call 911 cause a “mexican had a knife” outside, I reached into my purse and quietly took my birth control pill. It is my new America, but we have a lot of work left to do. (more…)

Kevin Mason, better known on the internet as Dark Daze, is a UK-based photographer I’ve been following for a few years now. I’ve been reading a bunch of interviews with photographers, thought it’d be fresh to interview Kevin, see where his head’s at, what makes him tick. So here we go: (more…)

Another laid-back weekend, another session of bad movie watching. The question is, are there enough bad movies to keep me busy in the foreseeable future?

I say YES.

First: Fantastic Four 2: Rise of the Silver Surfer.

Not goofy enough to be enjoyable. Not spectacular enough to distract me from the mediocre acting. But the thing that really tipped the scales in this movie? The Big Bad. Galactus. Now, in the comics, Galactus is a planet-sized dude dressed in purple. Silly, of course. But he EATS PLANETS. NOM NOM NOM. I don’t care how the guy’s dressed, he eats planets, he’s got my vote for Scary Motherfucker.

But in the movie? Clouds. You heard me. Clouds. Galactus is a bunch of clouds that just kind of…um…surround a planet? make it ’splode? {shakes head in shame} If they’d have shown me a huge dude in a purple suit, I’d have bought the movie. Bought it and showed it to anyone who entered my home. “This,” I’d say, “this is a sign of bravery and spirit on the part of the filmmakers.”

I will not be showing anyone clouds.

Next: The Invasion.

Everyone involved in this movie should be forced to give $1000000 each to world relief organizations. The millions spent on this film were not only wasted, but serve as a big Fuck You to places that could really use that money. It’s not just stupid. Not just bad. It is infused with horrible. Bad movie is in each & every cell of this film. Every frame. Bad writing. Bad acting. Bad direction. Even the costumers. Even the key grips. Everyone in the credits is to blame for this. Except the guy who wrote the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers film, upon which this crap-fest is based. Because he’s dead. Otherwise he’d be on the hook for this, as well.

Things just…happen, in this film. People make stupid choices like it was their job, plot points occur without reason, editing choices are extremely arbitrary. It’s a how-not-to-make-a-movie documentary, really.

And this was the Nice version of this review!