Bacon-Con II: Electric Boogaloo

I do declare: it is not Balticon
Unless a pork-stuffed luncheon makes the scene.
Last year a BLT bestowed upon
Mur Lafferty, with extra B -- I mean
Way extra. "No pigs left" quoth Brent -- had its
Turn in the spolight. This year Arioch,
Called Morningstar, inspired me to fits
Of tweeting how his huge hot dog did rock
(Avast your gutter-thinking. I engage
Here in no metaphor). That frankfurter,
The longest, fattest I have seen this age,
Astonished all, I really do assure
You. But I'm very deeply puzzled that
The Fiendmaster quoth "something something cat."

In Which I Am An Attention Whore On @MightyMur's show

Let it be known: I love Mur Lafferty
She is a heroine, whom I hold dear.
I should be writing more; that's something we
All say, but she is ev'ryone best cheer-
Leader. But I really am afraid.
Matt Wallace is here too, and I, a dope
Have volunteered to sit there and be made
Their straight man. Is there really any hope?
My heartbeat speeds, and I am drenched in sweat-
Though that may be this room. Convention funk,
We have it, just as much as we can get.
I have resolved just now to try and punk
Our girl. So if I die tonight, speak well
Of me, or otherwise, go thee to he'll!

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In Which I Am Rude At A Balticon Panel

Ms. Riznphnx glammed up to the nines
Sits at the table next to Sheila Dee
A-talkin' 'bout our life on teh onlinez
(The kind of phrase I gladly steal with glee
From our TeeMonster, moderator: LOL),
While I sit in the audience with Dave
Sobkowiak, Michbek -- oh there's a whole
Great host of us, like Evo Terra (rave!)
And Bekemeyer, too. It frakking rules!
But I already know just why they tweet:
It's all for love. Now I sit on a fool's
Mad errand: I've a sonnet to complete.
So while my darling tweeps pontificate,
I type into the iPod, 'cause it's late!




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In Which I Accept That My Friends Are Not Imaginary

Day Two at Balticon; I now believe
I did not make them up. These are my friends
In very truth. Each hour I do receive
Fresh confirmation. As each panel ends
More turn up. There are more than I can name
In fourteen lines. I'm overwhelmed, hard-pressed
To here describe how it feels. It's a game!
I'm passed from hug to hug, always impressed
That people want to meet me, know I'm real
Just as I'm stunned to share the room with them.
The challenge is how best to swipe and steal
The moments to enjoy with each, to stem
The flow of time that's passing as we smile
And plan to do stuff in a little while.

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In Which I Geek Out On The World's Greatest Geek Mom For Her Birthday

I'm at a science fiction con because
I'm fortunate; my choice of mothers has
Left me with tastes refined and rare. She was
Assiduous in cultivating as
A true nerd, me, her eldest daughter. I
Can't ever thank her quite enough for this!
I can't recall first seeing Star Trek. Why?
T'was ere I can remember! How I miss
Her on this day, her birthday; she would quite
Enjoy this crazy scene at Balticon.
I think of her with love this Friday night,
Am sad that on this day of days I'm gone.
But 'cause she raised a smartass, too, I'll say
A neener with a fond wish for the day!



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The Interstellar Feller: In Which Pepito Doesn't Quite Save The Day

Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

And can it be that he's still unaware,
Our hero? Will he ever get a chance
To act like one, and save his lady fair?
Not yet, it seems: he still lies in a trance.
Thus, when Tribruno presses his ray gun
Against Pepito's temple, there comes no
Reaction, save Yectara's saddest one:
Surrender. To the brig these three must go!

The Ancient screams as they are tethered, led

From this, the crowded chamber of the queen,

Who tempted she who'd warn her, to her bed

Instead of paying heed to what she'd mean.

They'll languish, prisoners, now, through the night,

E'en while the mutineers begin to fight.

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Location:Shawan Rd,8,United States

A sonnet lost within the ether is
No sonnet at all. That I wrote one must
Be taken on my word. It's my own biz
If I have kept to my vow. Do you trust
Me, gentle readers? Irony:
The lost one did concern the lack of fail
I'd then encountered, smug and full of squee
Within Atlanta's airport. Now a gale
Of error overtakes me, all alone
Within this plush hotel room, Guinness-drenched
And finding that I failed before. I moan
To see I must yet write, though tired and wrenched
From this my cozy hotel bed. Ah, me,
It's heck to have a craft; perhaps you see!


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In Which A Simple Chore Makes Me Question My Sanity Every Time

An open suitcase sits upon my bed,

All items from my list are in there, and

Some extra things, besides. But in my head

My packing's incomplete. You understand,

You list-makers, who start long weeks before

A trip, and check the damned thing ev'ry day,

Who scribble things out, then add a few more,

Quite certain aught's forgotten. There's no way

A perfect packing job has been achieved,

Not ever in my lifetime, this I know!

I start too soon and second guess me, grieved

To think of being without something. I'll go

O'er these two lists once more before I sleep,

But dream of errors; wake up early. Meep!

In Which I Cast A Cynical Eye On The Lost Finale

The Island was the Bardo, that is clear

And everybody died at some point, yes,

But as finales go, I cannot cheer

The Lost one overmuch, although I guess

'Twas better than the end to BSG

(But not by a whole lot). Some things were cool:

Giardia of leadership? Why not!

The toilet flap of power? And each rule

About what may not happen is just rot

Depending on each dude's management style?

OK, it's pulp, so credibility

Is mayhap not the point. We kept the dial

On ABC for six years and we saw

The products that they hawked, so where's the flaw?

In Which I Do Not Enjoy My Day's Drive One Bit

"May 25th, so put your parka on,"
My buddy said as I pulled out of town.
You'd think this was sarcasm; you'd be wrong.
A sheaf of thundersnow was coming down
So thick and bad I could but barely see.
The windshield wipers weren't up to the job
For one, and for another, there must be
A better word for what that sky did. Sob!
The world grows tiny on such trips, down to
The pavement and the mucky, murky air:
No sight of all of country driven through,
Each quarter-mile its own tough challenge. There
Is nothing like Wyoming in the spring.
No really: there is not any such thing.

In Which I Decline (Respectfully) To Let The Lost Finale Dictate My Evening Plans

I busted hump to catch up on the show,
Watched Seasons Five and Six in just two weeks.
I guess that makes a fan of me, although
That I got so behind, perhaps, well, speaks
To finding LOST good fun but not a must
(Though this year it has pulped it up quite well:
Old temples, deathless Romans, a robust
Trade in new characters, a rising swell
Of screechy violins, and, can't forget,
Schroedinger's dudes and time travl'ers galore!).
Unlike you all, whose ev'ning plans were set
When the finale date was, I'll ignore
Its being on tonight; I'm tempted by
Much rarer fare than TV can supply.

Sonnet Dare: In Which @iamhewhoisiam Demands A Hearteater

I've eaten hearts for lunch and dinner; game
Meat is a pleasure, healthy, tasty, fine,
(Far better than some other meals I'd name)
Pan-roasted, served with veggies and some wine.
But that's too literal, I'm sure, for what
Rich Leslie dared me write today, and so,
Though I am sure that he's expecting smut
(This is a fam'ly sonnet blog) I'll show
That my own heart, that metaphoric seat
Of tenderness, has felt the prick of forks
(Though I find no one's out to taste this meat;
I serve it to myself when Love disports
Himself with me and mine). And so, you see,
Nobody ever eats my heart but me.

In Which @JennyBeanses Gets To Be Queenses For A Day

O Jennifer, my oh-too-distant pal,

Today's your day to reign, be pampered, and

Saluted for your awesomeness. My gal,

I'm always stunned to see what you have planned --

While knowing well your plans are e'er seen through.

The Goblin Market podcast may be done

(And done quite well), but there's still more that you

Shall share with us, and I say I, for one

Can't wait to dig it. Happy birthday, lass!

You've been a wond'rous friend, one whom I heart.

Here's hoping that your day will soon surpass

Your dearest wishes for it. I'll impart

One last expression 'ere I say hello

To my day gig, and that's GO, EAGLE, GO!

In Which An Old Pal Turns 30: Waka Waka Waka

Can it be thirty years since we first learned
A hungry man can live on yellow dots?
How many million quarters have been burned
To hear the waka waka? Must be lots!
I ever was a duffer at this game;
One only was there in my little town
And that where I dared not go, to my shame --
The high school kids were scary, hangin' down
At the convenience store, when it was new.
Now where the arcade games were, you will find
A low-rent humidor of cigarettes.
I wasn't totally deprived, though, mind:
I too wasted much time with no regrets.
I had to go to Rawlins, that was all
And play at Roller City. 'Twas a ball.

Interstellar Feller: In Which A Ploy Fails Somewhat

Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

Yectara's tears move many; all have basked
In her affections; sweetest mem'ry stirs
E'en though her voice cannot, and all unasked
A handkerchief is proffered. This occurs,
Alas, as tempers still are running high:
The gesture earns more laser fire. An arm
Is lost! Blue ichor sprays! Now hurt and shy
A limb, the cacogen wishes all harm
Upon the eager mutineer who jumped
To wrong conclusions. Scuffles then ensue
Within those tiny quarters. Has this trumped
Tribuno's plans? But no way opens through
For queen or creaking ancient, nor will they
Leave poor Pepito helpless in the fray.