PLAY CLOCK – A Tweed Typewriter Short

 

The rhythm and hum of pigskin season is at the heart of this short film, exploring the wondrous life cycle of football. PLAY CLOCK features narration by Charlie, music by iMovie, and is written, directed and edited by Paul Camarata.

For more Tweed Typewriter Shorts like this, click here.

WHY NOT THE EGG? – A Tweed Typewriter Short

If we’re not counting The Egg among the Great Wonders of the World, what are we doing?!? That’s the question explored in this Tweed Typewriter short film. Hatched from the historic skyline of Albany, New York’s Empire State Plaza, it’ll leave you saying I Heart The Egg.

ESCALATED

“We’ll bring it up later,”
We said about our underwears
Then we left the pile of’em
On the bottom of the stairs,

And on the step above’em
Rolled neatly into pairs
We left a dozen socks
And three brushes for our hairs.

On the 4th step from the bottom
My stack of comics went
Right below my sister’s piggybank
Chock full of Lincoln cents.

A tennis racket and mobile device
Were on the next step up.
Three picture frames followed, two candelabra,
Then one antique porcelain tea cup.

Mom don’t love when we put stuff there
We don’t get what’s the matter
Though to climb up the steps
The way that they is
We sure could use a ladder.

TRUE GOO

O quesadee’
I sing to thee
This song of yummy squishy chee’.

All melty
In a tortee’
So sticky deelish, who wouldn’t agree?

For you, easily
I’d surrender a fee
Of a hundy … two hundy … hund’infinity!

But I’ll also concee’,
Quesadee, my swee’
Even sweeter you’d be

For just a penny
Or better yet
Completely for free!

 

BOBBY’n’DOAK

It may seem there’s no mixing
Leather and feathers
But this here’s a tale
How those Misfits got together:

To Bobby the Bull
Doak Mockingbird said,
“Say, what’s with those spikes
sticking outta yer head?”

To Doak with a chuckle
Bobby replied,
“Those’er my mighty longhorns.
They can’t be beaten’er tied!”

Said Doaker to Bob,
“Is that the case?
I thought they were a bird bench
Attached to a face.”

“Buzz off, little bird,”
Bob said with a sneer.
“Your best interest is not in
messin’ with this here steer.”

“I have no intention
of making a mess,”
said Doak.  “All I’d like
is a safe place to rest.”

“Then I recommend, pilgrim,”
said the giant beef beast,
“that you go so far west
that you reach the Far East.”

“No thanks,” laughed the bird.
“This is my home.
From the Red River Banks
To the Gulf Coast’s white foam.”

“Well I reckon from horizon,”
said Bob, “to horizon,
Around here I’m in charge.
That can’t be surprising.”

Above Bob’s head Doak floated,
Attempting to land,
While angrily the longhorn
Pawed his hooves in the sand.

“On the ground,” said the bird,
“All would agree:
You are king ….
But in the sky? I think you need me.”

“About as much,” said the bull,
“As beauty queens need pimples.
Longhorns don’t need mockingbirds
It’s simply that simple.”

“You mean not even if,”
The dancing bird inquired,
“Mr. Long’s horns were on
the wrong side of barbed wire?”

At that a latch clicked.
The sound made Bob frown.
He knew what the bird had done
Without looking around.

“Okay feathered friend,”
Bob hissed, shaking his head.
“Tell me again what you want.
What was it you said?”

At that moment an unlikely
Friendship was born
Between two Texas strangers,
The mockingbird and longhorn.

From their bond the bigger buddy
Got a latch-lifting pal,
Who if need be could free Bob
From a pen, without fail.

And L’il Doak was now backed
By the strongest force on the prairie.
And that freed the bird
To always mock and be merry.

Once their forces combined,
Their Texan statures would grow.
And how it all happened?
Partner, now you know.

 

SPINNING THE GLOBE

Our parents filled
Our house with traditions
From First Day School Photos
To Birthday Cake Wishings,

Easter Egg hunting,
Super Bowl gatherings,
July 4th bunting,
Dad’s New Years Toast blatherings.

Among all of it Christmas
Came with the most:
An Elf on the Shelf,
Those chestnuts to roast,

Stockings and trimmings,
Caroling, punch
For my sister with the Christmas Eve birthday,
a brunch.

They were all great
But each year the best
Was what kicked off our annual
Red and green fest.

It took place the night
We put up the tree
Then with tinsel and lights
Made it bright and shiny.

We added the ornaments:
Bells, candy canes,
Small wood nutcrackers,
Cool metal trains.

Then those gorgeous glass globes,
Too many to count,
From the trunk to the star,
An amazing amount.

Mom loved them so
They were her cherished prize,
It was tradition just seeing
How they glimmered her eyes.

All but one, every year,
The last left in the box.
Spotting it, Mom’s eyes and
Smile thinned like a fox.

We all sat to watch,
Dad was included,
Knowing Christmas couldn’t start
‘Till this moment concluded:

Mom removing the final
Gorgeous glass globe
And carefully lifting it
Beside her ear lobe,

She made like her fave
Doc Gooden on the hill,
Kicked her leg high
And fired a pill

In our open brick hearth
Where shattering mixed with flames
Made us cheer as if Doc
Just tossed a perfect game.

“Now Christmas time’s back,”
to us exclaimed my Mother.
“And we’ve broken one globe.
Let us not break another.”

In our family everyone’s a bit
Different from the rest
But no one in our house
Disputes which tradition’s best.

Gallery

BEDTIME IN BUFFALO – A Tweed Typewriter Short

A stolen moment between father and son captures how in Western, New York, the road to sweet dreams is paved by the Buffalo Bills. Whatever team you root for and wherever you lay your head, this short film may just have you chanting Let’s Go Buffalo….to sleep! This Tweed Typewriter Production stars Pawloski and Son, […]

TO ARMS

What a year it’s been for elbows,
Such an age to be alive!
When we germ-free mid-arm hinges
Like no other time have thrived.

While our hearts go out to handshakes,
palms and fingers – What a run!
There’s a new joy in the world:
It’s we elbows having fun.

Sure, in the past we did get bent
At other extremity fuss.
While we were tucked away in sleeves
No one would humor us.

But humerus heaven it’s been of late,
Leading goodbyes and greetings.
Everywhere you go an elbow is
Central to folks’ meetings.

It’s the joint I think you would agree
Keeping the world spinning.
Like never before there’s no one
Who can slow the elbows winning.

Nope, no Tommy, John, or Macho Man,
No arm patched coat or sweater
Has ever had an elbow that
Has ever had it better.

MOMMY MATH

Mom helps with math
And is usually good
But subtracting sometimes
She takes more than she should

Like when I take ten
Candies out of our jar
And she says “Give them ALL back!”
That’s taking too far.

So I say, “If you take one
Then I’ll have nine.
Not great, but a difference
I guess will be fine.”

Then she says “I think
That I’ll take all ten now.”
That she ever passed math this way
I don’t know how.

JACK SNIFF

Jack Sniff
With his nose
In he hales
And out he blows

Scent-detecting
Far and wide
From Jack Sniff
No smell can hide.

Hounds called Jack
When they were – welp!
Investigating and
Needing help.

Jack would come
And in a jiff
Solve the case
In just one whiff.

Folks asked Jack
‘Do you feel stuck?’
‘What I feel,’ he said,
‘Is luck.

‘That Sniff’s my name
and as you see
smelling to me
comes easy.

‘Rivers versus
themselves swimming
have a hard time
ever winning.

‘That’s why I, Jack Sniff,
always stay
with a heart full
of smelly play.’

RETURN OF THE ROUND TOP

Shift attention from the whales
Disregard the Barrier Reef
There’s a new endangered species
Needing focus and relief

At one time its abundance
Rivaled all the Earth’s insects
But nearly never now does one spot
Sweatshirts with classic crew necks

Where hoodies have not overrun them
Vests nip at their cuffs
So crewnecks get almost no love
On streets, beaches or bluffs:

For their nifty circle collar
For their lack of drawstring knots
For the Farmer Tans they gift
(If Farmer Tans are what you want).

So sing a song for crew necks
Say a prayer that they’ll come back
The Return can happen slowly,
starting on the discount racks,

Until more than Moms and rowers
Sport’em and help lift the hex,
on the classic crew neck sweatshirt:
comfy, harmless, unisex.

THE LION-LAMB BRIDGE

Every year on the 16th
Of the 3rd month
Just before noon
Two dear old friends meet,

A baton passing tag team
Without whose exchange
The long march from winter
Could not be complete.

The first to arrive
Wears a top hat and tails,
Holds a chair to keep big cats
Tuned like a clock

The next at all times
Will take wools over wolves
And is expert at how to
Keep tight-knit, a flock.

They are the Shepherd
And Lion Trainer
And March is the moment
Their paths come together,

To smoothly transition
Best as can be done
The fierce-cranky-cold
To the pleasant-warm-weather.

Standing halfway between
February and April
These two get the Lion
To shake with the Lamb,

And say these magic words,
“Hocus-pocus-snowkiss-crocus:
Now spring us from winter,
AbbraCalendar-zam!

Some years their spell
Has an instant effect
Others it works
As if on delay,

But quickly or not
On the journey toward summer
The Lion-Lamb Bridge
Is the only way.

And to navigate it
Needs the Shepherd and Trainer
The duo that meets
Every noon, March Sixteen.

How lucky we are
For their teamwork each year
Making the March
Wacky Weather Swap clean.

THE BIG DOG – A Tweed Typewriter Short

Zo is the canine king of the block. Until the morning he moseys down a different street and discovers a new world view. A humorous story for lovers of pups, Albany, or pups from Albany.

NOTE: This story was published originally on this site as a poem only, then again in Steller Stories format. To see the progression from script to screen, click here.

JOHNNY CORKFORBRAINS LOST HIS CUP OF TEA! 3.0 – A Tweed Typewriter Short

The migration of this Johnny Corkforbrains story continues – from its original form as a word doodle, to a hand drawn Steller Story, to here now as a short film. Includes my new adventures in sound design and music production – truly a homeMADE movie.

THE IRON HOG STREAK

East of Ohio
West of New York
Lived an old hog,
The “ground” kind, not the “pork”.

Yes, a groundhog he was
By the name of Phil
In the town of Punxsutawney
Living under a hill.

Known to all as “The Iron ‘Hog”
For his unbroken streak
Of predicting if winter
Would have six more weeks.

Well, one year just as
His big day drew near
Phil’s “Iron ‘Hog” streak
Was in danger, he feared.

That’s when Philippa Aliquippa
Elsewhere in PA
Heard her phone ring
The night before Groundhog Day.

“Hello there, Pippa?
It’s your old pal Phil
Here in Punxsutawney
And feeling quite ill!

I tried not to call
I tried to hold out
But it’s nearly tomorrow
And my health is in doubt.

Shadowed or not, a groundhog must be here
Shadowed or not, a groundhog must go!
To sort out the seasons,
So everyone knows!
Tradition … the streak …
To put on the show!”

Philippa Aliquippa
Detecting desperation
Said, “Phil, if you’re extending,
I accept the invitation!”

Then off to Punxsutawney
From Aliquippa, PA,
She set out for a surprise trip
On Groundhog Day,

And at old Gobbler’s Knob
Still dark before dawn
Pippa met Phil
On the calm, moonlit lawn.

In between sneezes
He talked through each step,
Then one at a time
Had Pippa review it
She listened and nodded
And played along well,
Keeping to herself
That there was nothing to it.

Then as the sun rose
And a buzz filled the town
Pip and Phil peered out
From below the ground.

“Any questions?” he asked,
“Any last minute stuff?”
“Yes, I’m really” Pip said
“Craving marshmallow fluff.”

She smiled then giggled then laughed,
Phil did not.
“No worries, Pux-pal.
This old i, I can dot.”

Then upward she climbed
And outward she went
And spotting no shadows
Away winter she sent.

A top hatted fella
Then held Pip aloft
There were cheers and snapshots,
In his den, Phil joy-coughed.

That was the year partnership
Saved old Pux Phil
When the Iron ‘Hog Streak
He could not solo fulfill.

Still the problem was solved
In time for Groundhog Day
The Philippa Aliquippa
Turned Punxsutawney Pippa way.

oN transformatioN

Never forget the fella

who sits after M, before O,

without him, my friend, you’d be fried,

all things nice would feel like ice: cold.

Happy sand would be sad,

every band would be bad,

and bananas, like sheep, 

simply baaa.

So respect that letter,

just one past halfway,

who keeps windows from being widows,

everywhere, everyday.

MIGHTIER, INK

When an old forgotten pen 

in a pocket is discovered

A fresh opportunity 

has been uncovered,

To unlock and empty 

the full idea cage

Onto an endlessly 

possible page,

To draw a new door 

Where before none had been,

Such a find is more precious than 

Finding a ten.