Papa, Bob Filmography

• XIX Winter Olympics Opening Ceremony
  2002, role: actor , character name: Himself - Biathlon Play-by-Play Reporter
• Hell's Kitchen
  1998, role: actor , character name: Hines Fight Announcer
• Giants Today
  1994, role: actor , character name: Host

• Lyrics: play full screen play karaoke
• Vertical Cougar - Beep Beep
• The Fluorescent Light - Beep Beep
• Oh No - Beep Beep
• Misuse Their Bodies - Beep Beep
• I Am The Secretary - Beep Beep
• Giggle Giggle - Beep Beep
• Executive Foliage - Beep Beep
• Electronic Wolves - Beep Beep

When you ere trained to walk upright, your first words were "I'm sorry." Trick her. Make her think you walk on water. Yeah, trick her! Splash water on your face to make tears. She's just a song in the making. They're all songs in the making. Sometimes we're friends until you forget how to talk. You get drunk, drunk, drunk. Sometimes you're just a slut on the floor crawling in circles, splashing your eyes with water again. Go write a song about that. I get to read how you broke her and hear your songs over and over. You are a lover, but lovers are hunters even when prey falls in their lap. You hunt them down, then cry when they get hurt. They adore you, and you devour them. "Oh no, I'm so sorry. I really am this time. Don't you know that I love you? I'll make it up to you. Please wait and let me tell you a little bit about myself. This is a game. You don't know it, but you're playing now. You lost the first time, but you think you want to play again. So, take a number like a client in an office lobby. Wait your turn; this game has two participants. Wait!"

I'm walking in place. I'm falling down. I see a beacon of light from the fax machine. I forgot to shave my face. I didn't comb my hair. My skin is pale, but that's acceptable. I decorate my house like a cubicle so I can feel more comfortable. I shine my shoes until I can see my face. I starch my shirt until it chafes the skin. In the morning I'll be ready to force a day into a folder, to represent myself with numbers, to fabricate a smile. The fluorescent lights make us wilt like the plants that cannot be trained to stay alive! I fill my house with technology so I don't have to talk, so I don't have to think. Take a picture of my face. Record the sound of my voice. We do not last forever. We can be trained to perform anything.

I'm saving my strength cause you're gonna come home tonight. Why should I fight this force that compels me to make your lap a snack and your skin my religion? I hear ringing in my ears, blood beating through my veins. I'm having a tantrum. My id is fucking screaming. "Oh no!" We got ourselves in a tangle like two strings braiding into rope. "Oh no!" Exposing ourselves to the elements, for a second I was numb until my sense awoke. Her lips! Hair! Eyes! Smell! Her clothes! Voice! Breath! Nails! Please eat the mints off your pillow. Lay down while I play for you a guitar solo. Hands need to touch you. Hands will help us make love.

"My desire is unbearable. I can't control it. I've convinced myself that it won't subside. The accusations unfold and accumulate. My actions have only one word. Attrition's not enough; there's only one thing to do. Rise! I will plead for penitence to repent for my vice. It will be my penance to crack the 'Whip of Lust.' I will be redeemed and rise!" You are safe for now. Someday, the story will unfold. Until then, you'll have to live with yourself; press your lips to the cross. "It could have stopped, if only I did. I confessed too late, now no one will forgive. But I won't let it go, won't let it be. This time I could fight this. I won't let it change me at all. I won't let it force me into it. I can pull myself above my mired life! It will be for the best when they know I'm gone; I will rise. Rise!" Behind closed doors inside a monk's robe, panic bristles the hairs you try to maintain as you take what you want.

Mothers clad in Coach leather are swarmed in litigation. I am the secretary. I rub their case files generating heat to release perfume. I fill their shoes with the lift of hot air. I burn their bridges on their lunch breaks faking full schedules. I dabble in the art of lobby stall. I am the slow trickle filter on the tap of rushing divorce force. I dine on the marriage corpse. At my desk I generate days of auto pollution spat out from the scorched patience of fenced fems on repeat lobby attendance. Motoring in the grid - a pressurized wavy-lined road roast. The lid whistle screams in a chorus of horns. Their asses red and flustered from a regimen of cush upholstered smothering. Their elastic bras bulge in a 12-hour life grip as the stitched metal fingers chip enamel from lingerie hoops. A serum of skin salt/herbal lotion spackles the strangled wheel at ten and two o'clock; pumps pumping breaks in a repetitive rock. I am the fulcrum where client and counsel meet. I shift leverage to teetering lawyer leaches that feed me with loyalty checks from the tipped scales of their spouse-dishonered hosts. I burn them all on the phone with empathetic friends in similar shitty lives. We wade daily through the hot grid to formalize these hustles

That's great! I get to see you in your school clothes! I'm gonna bounce you up and down on my knee. We're gonna giggle until our giggles become tickles. Until my work pants are soiled, until my spit starts to boil. Standing in your bedroom cheering with your pompoms, I'm peeping through the window. You're dancing to a boom box. I want to touch you. I want to touch you like raindrops. High kick! Now, do the splits. Be my candy girl. Heels click! Now, lick your lips my pubescent prisoner. I'm gonna hunt you like a tiger. Two cats in a cage, but one has a boner - two hissing cats with glass eyes and matted fur. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to call so late. I just wanted to let you know that I'm beating off." I want you so bad, I'm gonna have to go to jail. I'm gonna squeeze...squeeze!

Captive ferns caress finger-leaves across a name etched in office glass. There is a contract between the enslaved and the master. Maintaining nature. Equal parts water. Sunlight is rationed. The fern has been misted. The pinstriped tiger keeps his "tail" coiled inside tailored slacks, inside a Herman Miller habitat until it's time to "attack". Lips curl back and reveal painting tongues against laptop sex. The fern has been misted by the master's sweat. Equal parts water and sunlight in exchange for executive foliage. There is a contract. Nature is maintained. "Secretary, I won't be taking calls when you see the Venetian blinds are drawn closed." Soil flies like an arterial spray, tiny beads of vermiculite. Leaves indented by human teeth.

You can't cover your face. It's pixels on a screen producing droplets of sweat from faceless patrons paying fees to view their fantasies in you. This makes them entitled and determined to own a piece of you. "Make her hands smell like coins!" Soiled dollars touching young skin. Bills dripping with milk. Shutters click as she bites her lip. "Please take my picture now. Don't look at me. Just let the camera peek. Replace what eyes would see. I have books to buy, tuition bills to pay. The camera's lens feels like a stranger's touch. This barter/exchange leaves a bulge in your pants. I need the money now, so don't judge me." It looks like you have things under control. Your legs spread. Your crotch splayed open like a coin purse waiting for the money shot. You can't cover your flesh; it doesn't belong to you. It's been traded like steaks over chopping blocks. Your face in pixels drips static sex for sale.