The very second game.
[I always liked the “Windmills of Your Mind” song from The Thomas Crowne Affair (1968). This is my sloppy mockery of it and its kooky lyrics. The original song was written by Michel Legrand, Alan Bergman, and Marilyn Bergman.]
Like an alabaster hamster snorting a line of moldy bees
Like an esoteric cleric preaching on the chi of knees
Like a sturgeon good at math
Like a German in a bath.
There’s that creep who stands in lines
For the treadmills made of mines.
Like wombats taught to whisper
Or a walrus made to weep.
Oh, look I’ve got a blister.
Have you put the kids to sleep?
Like an anemic brontosaurus
Like a surface that is porous.
Like a fork with just one prong.
Do I look alright in this sarong?
Bears indifferent to plastic
Like a sound that makes you feel
There’s a painting of a lobster
Or a girl stroking an eel.
There’s a sensation that keeps on building
When the circus comes to town.
The Heads try to keep us spinning
But I’m still frightened of the Clown.
There’s a danger of one finding
The lungs of a local mime
Stuffed into a suitcase lining
Before its scented with a lime.
Perchance a purple feather-duster
Or a hasty snark just off the cuff
Will curtail a lion’s luster.
Why aren’t we sleeping in the buff?
Filling red balloons with mustard
Always worked just fine for me.
There’s a startling revelation
That I’ve never had to pee.
Like a wicker orca filled with peanuts riding on antique skis
Like that face you make just before you have to sneeze
Like a leopard who needs a slap
Like a ghost without a map.
A prepubescent hagfish redefines
All the treadmills made of mines.
And the treadmills run on time.
A few of the short films I’ve had the pleasure of appearing in.
Someone made an homage to “The Dark Knight” and they asked me to be the Commissioner Gordon character because I had a mustache. 2009
The real Santa Claus. A movie as inane and ludicrous as the song that inspired it. 2010
Just for fun we made us some waffles. 2011
Murder! A hit and run driver tries to dispose of a troublesome body. 2009
I play a cat pervert. 2011
A silly, little short we all helped write involving a bored poet and a wayward time traveler. 2008
Pantomime getting beat up outside can get the cops called on you. 2011
A scene that my friend re-shot from Tim Burton’s “Ed Wood.” 2008
One of my first experiences on camera. My roommate asked me to play his weird roommate and I figured I already play that role well in real life so… 2007
I have a very brief cameo as a ping pong player.
Ranpopo the Peccary Wizard: the fantastical man who controls all of the world’s peccaries with but the wave of his sword. The ocelots will be no match for him.
The coat: a grand apparatus
And it ever wilt be
Supreme in stature and status.
This is my tale, my plea.
I sleep in a dark room
When I am not worn.
Around me moths have loomed
Since the day I was born.
The moths are patiently waiting
To munch me clean through.
‘Pon me masticating
Now I’m no longer new.
In my day I made fine tea
For all who would allow
A coat near kettles large and wee.
And I served it with a bow.
I now rest on an old table
Next to discarded toys.
I am the coat unsinkable
Neglected by girls and boys.
The sun scampers through the trees
And all are gone but me.
Is there no one that I can please
With my fur, my warmth, my tea?
The moon is laughing at my plight.
It is doubtless he will leave.
To make him go away I might
Plug my neck-hole with a sleeve.
Glowworms bare their eerie light.
I do not wish to fuss,
But coats do not like the night
Unless someone is in us.
I recall one time when
Sleet fell like buckets of water
And my owner decided then
To drape me ‘pon his granddaughter.
I kept her dry as best I could
But was useless I admit
To the old man who was so good
And who payed dearly for it.
By fire we dried our strain
And the girl began to cry
For walking out in the rain
Made dear grandpa die.
There was nothing I could do, you see.
He had done the unthinkable.
I tried to cheer her up with tea
But was no longer the coat unsinkable.
Tortured by one thought,
More than I could smother,
I saved one life but ne’er forgot
In so doing took another.
Now I am for sale
And this event still lingers
In my mind, never stale,
Like songs by sad singers.
Doubtless time will not remember
The man who wore me proudly
And saved the girl that one December
And departed this world not loudly.
The moths are now chewing.
I still recall the old man’s deed.
Yet no one is pursuing
To buy me or pay me heed.
Not only can I keep you warm
And make you delicious tea,
But can tell of sacrifice not norm
If you’d open your ears and see.
Once the moths have finished,
You’ll have allowed a desecration.
And what this man did shall be diminished
To butterfly defecation.