Friday, February 29, 2008

I've Got More Shitty Limericks, My Bad Yo

At times when I'm reading the paper
I wonder what life's like in Asia
Where men ride on carpets
And women have armpits
That always are hairy in flavor

I've heard of this place in Kentucky
Where winners don't have to be lucky
They say all you need
Is two pounds of weed
And people will treat you just duckie!

If ever you sleep with a Rhino
Make sure that he isn't albino
They're covered in fleas
and rife with disease
so schedule a trip to your gyno

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Artist Rendering, pt. 1

Artist Rendering:

Ghost in the Machine

Look, it's our very own Anthony "Big A" Miale! As you can see, his soul is forever trapped inside Google. That's why he's always telling people he's not scared of going to hell when he dies.

He's like a tiny little Spy Kids 3D: Game Over.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Sorry, I'm Gonna Start Writing Shitty Limericks

The first time I ate at White Castle
It ended up being a hassle
The burgers were tight
but the following night
I couldn't find someone to rassle!

I once knew a guy from Astoria
Who used to write stuff for Fangoria
"The magazine sucks," he said
" shucks! It's the only way I get to see Gloria!"

"It takes two to tango" he told me
Before turning to snuff out his stogie
"But what would I know? I'm just H. Ross Perot."
Then he took his last bite of bologna.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Found Art

Friday, February 22, 2008

Picture Book! Pictures of Your Mama, Taken by Your Papa a Long Time Ago

What? That's a Kinks song?

I thought it was The Beatles, are you sure?

Because it's really appropriate, given the...

Alright. Whatever.

Here are some pictures of the Beatles, lamping out in Liverpool right about when Ringo was replacing Pete Best. I've seen some of these before in the Anthology but Rolling Stone collected a dozen or so of them in one convenient slide show, so it's worth a look.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

I Have The Dumbest Fucking Real Estate Agent

My roomate procurred our current digs unnassisted in the summer of 2006. That's an amazing feat for a New York apartment until you realize that every property in this neighborhood is attached to a realtor. Alas; we live, we learn. It's not the wasted leg work that bothers us. It's the realization that the woman who we were required to pay about 2000 dollars to just to get this place is the dumbest human being on the face of the Earth.

Not more than an hour ago I answered the front door to find this very same agent asking to be let in.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.
"Duh, ah, is deah a vacand room on da secun floah hea?" She responds with thick Brooklyn accent. Please note I live on the second floor, and renewed my lease some time ago.

"Um, no."
"No? I Tawat it was dis one?"
"I guess it's da next one den?"
"I guess so."

She waddles over to the next building on the block. I slam the door behind her, incredulous.

My roommate swears he will become a realtor out of spite. I just want to beat her to death with a rock.

Films from the Underground

The Brothers Wachowski

Cyberdyme & Punishment

Hollywood Blockbusters as Russian Fairy Tales by artist Andrey Kuznetsov

via slashfilm

Bird Gehrls

Link to the Flickr page

"Giftgiver" DS Holder

Ever see that video where the creepy guy stabs the annoying guy with a syringe full of AIDS?

Yeah, neither have I. But this guy did.

Friend of Serious Lunch and all around awesome guy Josh Ferguson made me this killer Nintendo DS holder for my birthday.

Awesome. Thank you Josh.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

F.Y.I. Weasel

(via Wikihow)

Tuesday, February 19, 2008


Sunday, February 17, 2008

I Am So Sick of This Already!

Any passersby these days with their cell phones and their little cameras are always trying to take my picture. It's just not fair anymore! I'm so sick and tired of having to fight off swarms of Christian Bale fans. I mean come on! I'm Bob Officer from Serious Lunch; not John Connor from Terminator 4! Enough already! Geez!

Can't a guy just get through one day without being mistaken for Bale? Yeah, I know we share the same abs, bulging biceps and supercilious expression ...but I'm not going chop you up while listening to Huey Lewis and the News. I'm sorry, that's just not me.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Not For Shoobies

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Robert Rodriguez

I'm not a fan of your movies* but I like your Dogme95 Stylies.

*Sin City was pretty cool
*And that segment in Four Rooms

(Via Strobist)

Monday, February 11, 2008

Serious Lunch - LIVE!

If you're in the New York area, don't miss the first ever Serious Lunch live show, Friday the 29th of February (Leap Day, friend) at 7PM!

Reserve your tickets in advance by following this link. See you there!

Saturday, February 9, 2008


Friday, February 8, 2008

Larry David to star in Eyes Wide Shut remake

How much sexual tension can one movie channel? We're about find out: Larry David, the mind behind Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm, is set to be the lead in Woody Allen's shot-for-shot remake of the 1999 film Eyes Wide Shut. The as-yet-untitled feature is scheduled to shoot on a sound stage reproduction of New York City (!) in the spring. In true Kubrickian style details are being kept under wraps, but David will act alongside Cheryl Hines (Waitress) replacing Kidman as Alice Hartford and Jeff Garlin (Daddy Day Care) as the mysterious Victor Ziegler. The movie features the all-time highest number of masked sexual performers of any Allen film to date.

Via Entertainment Weekly

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

The Well-Wisher and the Tress

IN THE MORNING at the easternmost end of the 7 train platform in times square, at the entrance to the escalator leading up to the principal concourse, a man stands and surveys the commuters with heavy lidded eyes. He is thick goiter-necked and broad faced, with fingers like rolls of Kennedy coins and pants that taper to the bottom at such a degree as to resemble a confectionery icing bag, he is not dissimilar in appearance to a resident of Del Fino island. As he watches the somnambulant New Yorkers walk past he removes and then replaces his MTA stovetop conductor’s cap, his apish lower lip hangs, surprising tapioca-ball teeth exposed between two unshaven jelly bowl cheeks, rhythmically announcing “Watch your step getting on the escalator, folks!”

I am not in the habit of haphazardly stepping wherever my feet may please, letting them drag me about like two leashed ferrets. However, I must admit, in my reduced early morning state I may without even consciously realizing it neglect to choose my step, perform the step, and watch to see how it turns out.

Certainly this process is crucial whilst navigating the subway system, particularly when entering an escalator. Any number of unfortunate bloopers may occur, for example one may step with the foremost part of their shoe residing on the moving tread but the heel of the shoe wholly or partially placed on the landing’s immovable comb plate. As the tread continues to move forward at 1-2 feet per second, depending on the distribution of the individual’s weight, vibrations will occur, stuttered dragging forward, or perhaps simply staying in place as the moving tread massages the underside of the foot. Having not achieved the desired result of being carried forth by the moving walk, one will look down in confusion as a slide whistle sounds out a note pitched from high to low. The individual sees the misplaced foot framed clearly between the metal tress and as realization occurs a spring loudly breaks free of the cloth membrane of a mattress.

Another highlight-worthy blooper is when a commuter steps in negligence with their shoe partially on one step, partially on another. At first our poor soul will not realize the folly of their actions, as the steps are relatively flush in the first few feet of their escalator excursion. Oblivious contentment will soon turn to alarm as the steps separate at 1-2 feet per minute, leaving the heel unfound and the toe bearing the entirety of the foot’s burden. If ones other foot is placed firmly on the lower step all is well, but if both feet are left hanging in this position, toes and calves rapt like an athlete on the high-dive preparing a back summersault twist, one of the most classic pratfalls of modern times has all but certainly been set in motion. The individual will teeter and sway, hand searching for the rubber polymer of the handrail but grasping nothing but air as a warbling birdcall is sound from an unknown source. The individual tips back into the startled escalator passenger behind like some sort of impromptu trust game, and as they are begrudgingly cradled and pushed upright by the unwilling participant a cacophony of pots and pans hit the floor.

For helping us avoid these embarrassing transgressions we thank our man, collectively, as a people, for reminding us, instructing us, guiding us, and ultimately spiritually transcending us in our use of an unremarkable pedestrian traffic unit.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Conversations With Tim Bierbaum, 2004


"I drank a beer in the shower this morning."
"Why'd you do that?" [hahahaha]
"Never done it before."


"I did a handstand in the shower this morning."
"Why'd you do that?" [hahahaha]
"Never done it before."

-Bob's Gournal, April 2004

Monday, February 4, 2008

Greenpoint, Way of the Samurai

You're alright Greenpoint, because whenever I step off the G, there's always a warm message tagged on a subway movie poster. Until now, my favorite was the poster for The Kingdom, with a word bubble coming out of Jamie Foxx saying "This shit just got real." But I think this one takes the cake, though it's not really a joke. Just a reminder. Reminding people of their roots. This is currently on Vantage Point poster at the Greenpoint Ave. G stop.

Friday, February 1, 2008

Growing Pains

As a young man, around the turn of the century, I successfully lobbied my father for a chance to work in Philadelphia for a summer. I framed it as a test of my mettle, an opportunity to take on the impending challenge of adulthood amongst real men, far from the comforts of the childhood I was leaving behind. Manual labor, and lots of it, would be my summer semester. After putting my affairs in order for a return the subsequent autumn, I booked passage down the coast the first week of June, arriving just as the last nectarous breaths of spring evaporated into a froth above the Delaware. It came as a hot, rusty season that one, with long spells of cloudless sky scorching the cracked Pennsylvania earth.

I was the youngest of the men contracted to work the First Union lot that year, a fact which (by being a full head's length shorter than any of my coworkers) never left the forefront of my peers' perception. Each of them seemed to me a behemoth, with an impossibly muscular frame emerging from the very same materials I too was composed of. Had I not biceps as well? Having them or not seemed irrelevant, laughable even when one considered the disparity between their version of the muscle and mine. Like the runt of a litter, I found not a shred of sympathy amongst them. In me they saw a child of privilege engaging in some sort of class tourism, not the idealistic wandering ascetic I fancied myself.

The first week, a cold war was waged against me each day, with contemptuous deep set eyes regarding me below weathered brows. None more so than the foreman, Francis. He was a dark specimen, hirsute from tip to toe with a gravely voice and blackened teeth. The other men regarded him with unwavering admiration. They were a flock of man beasts, and he was their shepherd. Morning meeting was the worst, when a full day's banishment was ascribed to me with one flick of his elephantine wrist. Upon sizing up my capabilities, with a cool confidence he'd assign me the most wretchedly menial tasks he could devise, having me pore over documents or proofread purchase orders 'til my eyes were weary with malcontented boredom. He, in turn, would sequester himself in his well appointed office until the afternoon. The others would work the lot, shoulder to shoulder, brothers in arms.

I assumed I was suffering through some sort of trial or test period, after which I would be accepted amongst the laborers, if not as an equal than at least as a 'little brother'. At the end of my second week, when I finally came to realize that there was no exam taking place, here confined amongst reams of forgotten dusty parchment, I decided to take action. The foreman's lack of faith in my skill as a laborer threatened to lop my entire endeavor off at the ankles; I could have just as easily stayed in New York had I wished to indulge my wont for administrative work. I had no choice but to approach him.

I pushed myself to walk with a robust gait as I approached his office. My instructors repeatedly told me, as an adolescent, I had been guilty of employing too feminine a step. Despite my petite feet, I was pleased that the sound of my strides echoed forcefully through the hallway. As I approached his door, a mature resolve came over me, and after three quick blows I entered without waiting for a response.

Francis was in the middle of the room, red-faced from exertion and in obvious discomfort. My eyes didn't know where to look at first, so it took a moment to truly take in the struggle: His pants were around his ankles, causing him to shuffle about, bare-assed and helpless. His hands clutched a black box below his abdomen, their strained whiteness betraying the severity of his grip. He muttered to himself in quiet desperation, with a tone far too faint and pathetic for my ears to pick up discreet words. His eyes finally met mine.

"GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!" he roared at once, eyes shaking in their sockets.

I didn't budge an inch. I couldn't. I felt incapacitated. "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!" Still, utter paralysis.

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE OR I'LL KILL YOU!" This threat was the final motivation my icy limbs needed, apparently, for I began to back out of the room, mouth and eyes agape. As I started to shut the door in front of me he called out suddenly, "WAIT!". I froze. "WAIT! GET BACK IN HERE!"

I weighed my options: Defy him and return to the musty piles of paper I so dreaded (now certainly for the duration of the summer as punishment), or go further down the rabbit hole with Francis and the mystery box affixed to his groin. Knowing precisely where the former road led, I opted for the latter.

I stepped back into his office. "CLOSE THE DOOR!" I did. I looked closer at the black box. It was producing a low buzz, like some tiny clockwork was busy churning away within. "DONT LOOK AT THAT, LOOK AT ME!" I raised my eyes to meet his, and took three steps towards him. In retrospect, I really can't explain my calm demeanor throughout what followed, but I accept it now for what it most likely was: A miracle.

"LISTEN TO ME BOY." I wouldn't have dared otherwise. "I HEARD WHISPERS THAT YOU HAVE A WAY WITH GADGETS. THAT YOU STUDIED MECHANICS. IS THAT RIGHT?" He wasn't yelling any more, but the intensity with which he spoke made it unnecessary. Despite the change in tone, his physicality displayed all the rage and pain that affected his speech just moments prior.

"SOME ASSHOLE SOLD ME...A DEVICE." He cast his eyes down to the box that, now from this closer vantage, very obviously had ensnared both his penis and testes. "TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT, IT DOESN'T DO... WHAT HE CLAIMED IT DID. NOT IN THE MANNER HE DESCRIBED AT LEAST." All of this said through agonized, clenched teeth.

I was never a 'hit' with the ladies, so to speak and as such I'm rather well read on matters of self-stimulation. As a result, it didn't take long for my understanding to catch up to the reality my eyes presented: Someone had sold lonely Francis the Foreman a mechanical pussy box, and he was hopelessly snagged within its trap. I had read reports of such devices robbing men of both means and member in one fell swoop, but these were all anecdotal accounts from travels to the Far East and I had never regarded one with my own two eyes. I decided to seize the opportunity my knowledge had afforded me. I looked down at the contraption, then back up at him.

Calmly - "Looks like your dick is caught in that box, Francis. There are no two ways about it."

He was yelling again, now with a tinge of panic. "DONT YOU THINK I KNOW THAT? JUST HELP ME GET IT OFF!" For all intensive purposes, the mechanical pussy box was a featureless black cube. Nothing on the outside to denote it as one thing or another, just an inconspicuous smooth black shape with a perfect, cock-and-balls-shaped hole on one side. Francis couldn't possibly know where the release was and the pain probably wouldn't let him think straight long enough to find it. "HURRY UP AND HELP ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

If the device was in fact like the one's I'd read about, A release switch was subtly embedded in the underside of the cube. But Francis was not cooperating, and though I knew exactly how to remove it, I saw no urgency in doing so.

"I know we didn't get off to the best start, Francis, you and I. But I hope we can come to an understanding now that your need my help saving your dick."


"And you, Francis, could rip your dick clear off, standing in the middle of your office because a conniving Chinaman sold you on a dream."

This quieted him considerably. "WHAT DO YOU WANT? WILL YOU HELP ME OR NOT?" He looked truly pathetic in that moment, pleading with me. It didn't make me love him, but I came to understand how someone could. I thought: "If only more people saw this side of him! He'd have no need for a mechanical pussy box at all!"

I took another step towards him, so that now I was within an arms reach of the box's underside, where unbeknownst to Francis, the release awaited my knowing touch. "What I want, Francis, is what any man wants - the opportunity to work an honest day and earn the respect of his peers." I realized this sounded slightly arrogant coming from my mouth, but I didn't waver and held my stare.

The certainty of his response surprised me.


He was right. The manual labor of an entire summer could never hope to muster as much significance as this one act could. How could you not help but respect the man who saved your cock and balls in a time of crisis? Surely you would hold that saint of a man in the highest of regards, mentally extolling his benevolence each time you took a piss or indulged in a masturbatory act. In a moment of perfect clarity, I felt myself reach for the box.

"Hold still, Francis."

As I slid my hand under the cube and pressed the release, my childhood came to a close. Francis recoiled to the floor in front of his desk, and the box clattered to the ground. He looked at me, speechless, with tears welling in his eyes. I offered my hand and helped him to his feet. He raised his pants back up to his waist, ignoring for now the dilemma of his bloody, mangled wang. He fastened his belt, took a second to compose himself, and opened the door. After a moment's hesitation, he turned back and extended his hand out towards the hallway.

He was urging me to go first. That afternoon, quietly standing in the frame of his office door, Francis the Foreman had ordained me a man.

We walked down the hall, side by side. He held himself tightly as he went, and before long, I could tell he was weeping softly into the crook of his elbow. No longer in awe of him I noticed, that unlike the other men, we were the same height. I stopped to ask what the problem was, but before I could, he dried his eyes and looked at me. In sotto voce, he called me 'brother' and led me to the common area where the men would soon gather for lunch.