Away from compute-box for days

Hey, everybody. There will be no more posts until next Tuesday or Wednesday because I'm going to Las Vegas to get myself all married up. More about this later. Also, I thought about writing a gorilla mask segment, but I think I'll have to pass because I just found out that Silkworm has had a new album out for two weeks and I haven't bought it yet, so I just might have to do that. I'm on vacation, suckas! My bachelor days are almost over, and I haven't even completed my pre-nuptial Vegas to-do list yet. Step 6: Snort half a gram of Bangkok junk off the pert backside of famed comedienne Rita Rudner. She's performing in our hotel, you know.

Masturpooping

I just remembered something that happened to me at work last year that I forgot to mention during the big shitting at work debates that occurred on this here blog and my brother's blog (www.krouch.blogspot.com). I work on the first floor of my particular office building. One day I had to drop a dump, and it couldn't wait until I got home. I went into the first-floor bathrooms, and both stalls were covered in diarrhea and urine. It was indescribably foul. Have some dignity, fellow work-shitters. Anyway, I moved into Phase 2 and took the elevator down to the basement to check out the stalls there. Two guys were right in front of me, and I followed them into the bathroom. They went straight to the urinals, making a lot of noise the whole time. They kept joking loudly to each other about pissing on the wall and the floor. I noticed that one of the stalls was occupied, so I got into the empty one, and it was actually diarrhea-free. Excellent. I'm sitting there on the toilet, listening to the two guys continue to joke about pissing everywhere. Finally, they leave, just as loudly as they entered. This is where it gets weird. I start to hear some noise in the stall next to me, which sounds a lot like someone masturbating. I'm willing to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, but, after a few minutes, it's pretty unmistakably the sound of a furious beat-off. I don't know what to do. If the guy doesn't know I'm there, which is slightly possible since I came in at the same time as two insanely loud, obnoxious guys who were making a lot of noise when I went into the stall and since the stalls are big enough that it's hard to see someone's feet in the next stall, it's kind of creepy. If the guy does know he's not alone in the bathroom, it's tremendously creepy. I finished my business as quickly and quietly as possible and got the hell out of there. I have only used the basement bathroom a few times since, and both of those times were right after it had been cleaned. For the love of god, workers of the world everywhere, DON'T MASTURBATE IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM IN YOUR PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT! This is not something that should have to be learned. It should be understood. In addition, anyone who can remain aroused with the olfactory delight of urine, fecal matter, and bad cologne permeating the air should not be allowed to work with others. That is all.

New Robot of the Week

Yo, dudes,
Here is our new Robot of the Week. Give him a name in comment form under this post. I will be in Las Vegas next Monday, so the contest winner will be announced on Tuesday or Wednesday. Good luck, suckers.

Robot of the Week winner

Yo, everybots,
This week's Robot of the Week contest winner is Mr. Thor Jenkins and his robot name, Legless Love Bot. Congratulations, Thor!

One more ridiculous thing about the movie "Year of the Dragon"

It's set in New York City's Chinatown. It was filmed in a studio in North Carolina. Huzzah?

Dang! Movies! Whoop!

Here's the movie roundup for the weekend.
I saw The Five Obstructions (Lars von Trier/Jorgen Leth) at the Alamo Drafthouse Village on Sunday. Von Trier is a weird case. I don't know what to make of him. I love his movies. A lot. But most of the critics I like either intensely hate his films or have deep problems with them. Usually several people in the theater walk out. A lot of my friends hate his films. The most common criticism is that he is a sadist who loves to see women being tortured (e.g. "Breaking the Waves," "Dancer in the Dark," "Dogville"). Maybe they have something there, but I'm not sure. I found the three female leads in those films some of the most interesting women characters in recent movie history. And, yes, they went through absolute hell, but show me a film where the main character isn't being tortured in some way, and we'll be watching...what? Anything? Maybe "My Dinner With Andre," but the audience is being tortured in that case. Ba-dum bum ching! But seriously, folks. "Five Obstructions" is more of an academic exercise, an experiment, and the point is not really whether it succeeds or not, but whether it actually is attempted. On this count, I think the film is worthwhile and deserving of a look.
I watched these on video:
Dawn of the Dead (George A. Romero) I have to watch this every couple of years. I was 11 years old when I first saw it, behind my mother's back at a friend's house the weekend after she stopped me from renting it because it was rated R. It's one of the best horror movies I've ever seen and, besides that, just a great movie. It's funny, smart, beautifully made, disgusting, scary, and fuckin' awesome.
The Home and the World (Satyajit Ray) This is an intriguing little drama set in 1908 about an Indian woman who has been kept in seclusion by first her parents, then her husband. Her husband, a progressive liberal, decides to let her out of the house for the first time in her life and allows her to meet his friend, a radical political activist and mooch of her husband's fortune. What happens next is overly simplistic and a little predictable, but the movie says a lot with the actors' body language and subtle glances, and it was compelling enough to keep my interest.
Swing Time (George Stevens) This is a great Ginger Rogers/Fred Astaire musical with a ridiculous plot that functions as an excuse for a lot of fantastic dancing and funny jokes. And how in the hell was Fred Astaire so graceful with that weird hydrocephalic light-bulb of a head?
Year of the Dragon (Michael Cimino) This movie is a colossal piece of shit. Cimino as a visual filmmaker is exciting and unique. Cimino as a writer of dialogue and story and director of actors is a bombastic hack. The latter Cimino drags the former Cimino down in this miserably ridiculous crapshack of a film. It's hardly a surprise that Oliver Stone co-wrote the script. It shares Stone's penchant for hamfisted political sermonizing functioning as dialogue, horribly written female roles, and overblown bombast as far as the eye can see. It doesn't even make sense. It's obvious the script was much too long for the movie because the editing makes little sense, important characters are introduced only to disappear from the movie entirely, and scenes are nearly over before the viewer even knows what he's supposed to be seeing. The female lead, Ariane (yes, just Ariane) is one of the worst actors in the history of any kind of moving picture, and, yes, I am including home movies and student films. And why the hell is Mickey Rourke's character "the most decorated cop in the city of New York" when his policing skills consist of screaming at his chief, getting everyone around him killed, and rushing into places without a warrant so he can punch and kick suspects in the head? (As a sidenote, why is the lead male character in every mainstream American film the best blah blah in his field. Ben Affleck is the best lawyer in the world, Greg Kinnear is the best scientist in the history of science, Bruce Willis is the best cat burglar we've ever seen, shit like that. I can't take any movie seriously with a premise like that.) On the plus side, the movie had some "so awful they're gold" one-liners from Mr. Rourke. Here are my favorites:
Bad Guy: You're a dead man.
Rourke: I'll live long enough to piss on your grave.

Rourke, to Ariane: I hate everything you stand for. So, why do I want to fuck you so bad?

Rourke, to his police cadets: I've got scar tissue on my soul.

Rourke, also to his police cadets: Any cop I catch taking bribes, I'm gonna punch you in the mouth.
Female cop: What about the women?
Rourke: You better bend over.
(all the cops cheer)

Rourke, complaining to his fellow detectives about the heat the chiefs put on his renegade ways: The honchos are going apeshit.

More fun with Makigami Koichi

Click here for solid gold. For the solidest gold of all, click on Track 4.

The Man Who Refused To Take His Gorilla Mask Off, Part 8

Steve puts on the brown dress slacks he's finished ironing and packs some silly straws in his breast pocket, just in case. He checks his watch. The limo should be here in twenty-five minutes, Steve thinks. He decides to wait for it on the steps in front of his apartment building. He checks his appearance in the bathroom mirror before he goes outside.
"You look great," Steve says to himself.
Once outside, he sees three shirtless men drinking beer in the street. One of them is leaning on Steve's 1989 Toyota Camry. If Steve's grandfather were still alive, he would describe these men as "roughnecks."
"So I say to that bitch, you better pack up your shit and get lost by the time I get back from the liquor store," the one leaning on the car says, followed by howls of laughter from all three men. The man's skin is a leathery relic of past sunburns. He has short, curly black hair and has the look of a man who spends most of his leisure time searching for fistfights. The other two men are taller, thinner, and much paler. They have long blonde hair, the taller one wearing his pulled back in a ponytail. They don't say much. "And you better believe that bitch was gone when I come back." He takes a swig of beer and smirks proudly.
"Hey, look," Ponytail says, pointing at Steve.
"Holy shit," Leathery says. "It's Apeman Steve. Yo, apeman. Get down here and have a beer with some other crazy motherfuckers."
Steve feels he has little choice but to comply with the roughneck's wishes. He walks over and introduces himself.
"Man, no introduction is necessary," Leathery says. "I saw you on the news all this week. Have a fuckin' beer, motherfucker."
He tosses a lukewarm can of Schlitz Steve's way. Steve catches it, takes out his silly straw, sticks it in the can, and sips the beer.
"Man, I love that gorilla mask shit," the man says. "I understand. Believe me, I understand."
He stares into Steve's eyes with an intensity that would have made him uncomfortable had he not been wearing a gorilla mask. "It's like you've had it up to here with all the bullshit in the world, man. You just said fuck it. Fuck your boss, fuck your old lady, fuck your parents, fuck the police, fuck a fucking job, fuck the feminists and the draft dodgers, and fuck the man. I like that. I like it a lot."
"Yeah, something like that," Steve says, laughing nervously.
"What you so dressed up for?" he asks.
"Oh," Steve says, blushing under the mask. "The mayor's giving me the key to the city. They're going to send a limo here in about a half-hour."
"No shit," the man says. "It's about time that asshole did something I liked. Fucking Mayor Brannigan, that asshole."
"What do you care," Ponytail says. "You don't even vote."
"Fuck you, Tony," Leathery says. "Give me a reason to and I will."
A lengthy pause ensues, then Leathery speaks again.
"Well, shit, man. We forgot to introduce ourselves. My name's Mustache Tim."
Steve shakes his hand, puzzled at Tim's lack of a mustache.
"Why do they call you that?" Steve asks.
"I won a bet one time," Tim says by way of explanation. Steve decides not to press it.
"These two faggots over here," Tim says, pointing with his thumb at the two blonde men. "You're not going to believe these fuckers' names."
"You're the faggot," Ponytail says. Tim punches him in the arm and mutters under his breath.
"Anyway," he continues. "This goofy-looking bastard with the ponytail is named Tony Bill, and this other goofy-looking bastard is named Bill Tony. I am not shittin' you. God's honest truth."
"That's wild," Steve says. "They're just reversed. Crazy."
"But that's not the craziest thing about their names, dude," Tim says. "It's the second craziest. Guess what's the craziest?"
"I don't know," Steve says.
"C'mon man," Tim says, agitated. "Think. It's real obvious."
"I give up," Steve says. Please don't kill me, he thinks.
"Okay, since you're a hero, I'll let you give up. The crazy fuckin' thing is that both of their names, their first names and last names, are first names. It's like somebody being named John Chuck or Fred Mike. It's fuckin' crazy, dude. It's like, 'Hi, my name's Mr. Tony.' 'Mr. Bill, your appointment is ready.' Crazy shit."
Tim laughs, a desperate wheezy cackle that makes Steve even more uncomfortable.
"So where's this fuckin' key to the city shit goin' down," Tim asks.
"At Dickie Stoolz Park," Steve says. "They've got a little stage set up, and they're going to have some free refreshments afterwards."
"Hell, yeah, dude," Tim says. "We'll come to that. We'll walk right up to the fuckin' mayor after smokin' a joint, and blow the smoke right in his face and say 'That's one in honor of Apeman Steve, bitch.' Then we'll eat some fuckin' refreshments."
"Dude," Tony Bill or Bill Tony says. "We'll bring some refreshments of our own."
The three men laugh hysterically. Steve laughs weakly and resists the urge to check his watch. He finishes the beer and sets it down gently on the sidewalk. A black stretch limousine moves slowly down the street and parks in front of Steve's building. A short, elderly man in a leather cap steps out of the driver's seat and opens the side door.
"Mr. Smithers," the man says. "I'm John Tarkington. I'll be your driver this afternoon. How do you do?"
Steve greets the man and says goodbye to the drunken trio.
"See you later, Apeman Steve," Ponytail says.
"We'll fuckin' be there, man," Tim says. "See you down there."
Steve waves and steps into the luxury automobile, breathing a sigh of relief. Tarkington shuts the doors and drives away. The three men run after the limo, chugging beers while they give chase. The quiet one with no ponytail throws his empty can at the back of the limo, but it stops a few feet short. Steve reclines in his chair and pushes play on the television built into the seat in front of him. A rerun of "Cheers" is being broadcast.
"Oh, Woody," Steve says, smiling. "Will you ever learn?"

Giant foods

I was hoping to find pictures of enormous foods on the Internet and share them with you, but it's proving oddly difficult. However, please take solace in the fact that you can create some for yourself, including the dreaded Giant Cheeseburger. Also, if you're ever in Omaha, please check out King Kong Burger and order the infamous Triple Kong. The burger is so huge and greasy that your bun will dissolve before you finish it. One crazy mothafucka once ordered the quadruple Kong and got his picture on the wall when he finished it. It will destroy you, giant burger-style. Also, look at a man devouring a huge wiener.

Check out these giant Las Vegas hot dog eating sons of bitches. 

I love big sandwiches

Let's hear it for big sandwiches everywhere. It's Big Sandwich Tuesday, everybody.

I love you, big sandwich. 

Big sandwich, you're the best. 

Mmm, big sandwich 

I love me a big sandwich 

New Robot of the Week Contest

Ladies and gentlebots,
Here's our new Robot of the Week. Give him a name, leave it as a comment under this post, and you could win the weekly prizeless contest and be in the running for the monthly prize-winning contest. The winner will be announced on Monday, Sept. 27. Good luck, jerks.

Robot of the Week contest winner

I would like to thank all six contestants in this week's Robot of the Week contest. And the winner is ...... Cuttyblacksow for Lonely in Sacramento. Congratulations, Cutty! By the way, Nick, I'm going to mail your prize package today or tomorrow.

Done did watch some ol' movin' pictures, I tell you what

I watched some movies this weekend, but you probably knew that. I watch movies every weekend. It's what passes for excitement in my meager existence. Here they is:
Rendez-vous (Andre Techine) Juliette Binoche is really, really great in this. The camera moves like nobody's damn business, I'm talking some beautiful, inventive visuals here. But this is just, pretty much, a wet fart of a movie. It's dumb. It's really, really dumb. And it's not trying to be dumb. It's trying to be smart. Really, really smart. But it's dumb. Really, really dumb. And it was co-written by a director I like, Olivier Assayas. He did a good job unloading his crap on a different director and saving the good stuff for himself.
A Sunday in the Country (Bertrand Tavernier) Now this is a good movie. It's an early-1900s costume period piece, but it's not some Merchant/Ivory monstrosity pummeling all of the wildness out of some classic book. It's about an old painter, who apparently has enjoyed some fame and recognition but who feels that maybe he missed the boat and that his work won't stand the test of time. His son, daughter-in-law, and grandkids come to visit him and his daughter shows up unexpectedly. And that's about it. This is one of the better films about family and the buried resentments, irritations, secrets, and affections that flit in and out of most family gatherings that I've seen.
In America (Jim Sheridan) I'm not sure about this one. It was waaay sentimental, which always makes me feel manipulated and uncomfortable, but sometimes it earned its sentiment. Other times it felt gross. The acting was wonderful, including the two little girls. Usually I hate little kids in movies because their dialogue sounds written by an adult, not spoken by a child. Why force little kids to be cute? They're going to be cute anyway if you just let them be, and a lot more naturally and less creepily cute, I might add. So stop forcing the cute. Sheridan only forces the cute a few times, but when he does, such as in the final scene, it tarnishes what he's trying to do. And sometimes the drama is ratcheted up too intensely where a subtler touch would be more effective. The most egregious example was a scene in which Paddy Considine, who plays the father, has a monologue about feeling dead inside since his infant son died of a brain tumor. Not even a good actor like Considine could save this scene. He's forced to do something really stupid that you only see people doing in movies. Here's the line:
"I can't see. I can't hear." (punches himself several times in the head and the chest, then yells the next line) "I CAN'T FEEL!"
The movie's got a lot going for it: the acting, footage of New York City that looks different from anything you've seen in movies before, and Sheridan's increasing confidence as a visually exciting filmmaker. It's just that the movie tries too hard to make you like it and to jerk out some tears. It's like the film is running for class president. Lighten up, I wanted to say to it.
Full Moon in Paris (Eric Rohmer) What can I say about this one? If you've ever seen a Rohmer film before, this one is pretty much just like it. That's not a put-down, though. Rohmer as a filmmaker is like James Brown or the Ramones as music makers. He's obsessed with variations on a basic theme, and most of his films are pieces of one single body of work. Like James Brown and the Ramones, Rohmer can be addictive and sometimes irritating. This is one of his good ones.

This is awesome

If you're having a bad day, Makigami Koichi will make it all better.

(Please watch the Voice Art Movie)

Boring

I'm bored at work. It will be a long time before I get to go home. Even though the Neil Young biography I'm reading is really good, time is still moving slowly. Someone, please regale me with tales of hilarity and/or woe in comment form under this post.