Shot in low-light style, Kuchar documents his experiences with various underground filmmakers such as James Broughton and Ken Jacobs, then moves on to the other side of Hollywood lifestyle to visit Nicholas Cage.

A trip to a barren landscape of jagged peaks and deep crevasses becomes a playground for an over-dressed hiker and his beefcake buddy as they secrete and imbibe fluids from various containers.

Something primitive projects into the present to upset the lives of a group of people delving into past-life regression techniques.

A trip across the bay to Concord yields a harvest of non-fruit-like beings who celebrate a housewarming that simmers with macho machinations and family discord.

Tippi the she-devil gets a little playmate of the feline persuasion while I dangle about the puppet populated premises with a head full of scholastic memories that delineate several teaching gigs featuring the fruits of our intercourse.

George visits his mother in the hospital on Halloween and contemplates the autumn colors.

This title is also available on The World of George Kuchar.

The pages of books that deal with nostalgia and the vanishing vistas of America's past are infiltrated by the appreciative presence of two hulks from today, who go their own ways through the by-ways and highways of an illustrated yesteryear.

A Fourth of July celebration ignites the Id and unleashes a digital demon hungry for imagery of the young and the restless to appease the contraption it sees through: the cannibal camcorder in a state of carniverous conniptions!

In a garden of roses and memorabilia from darkest Africa, a man and woman ponder the joy of cooking and the companionship of cats. Goodies for the guts abound in this visual essay on feline friendship and far away places.

My new pussy from HELL.

A chance to view the upper Bronx as a mantle of whiteness cloaks its natural splendor like icing on a cake and things all blubbery bob to the surface for air and a sniff of the "good life."

A short production I concocted with the students from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and a tour through the old Playboy Mansion in Chicago where I bedded down for several days, alone and confused.