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.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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.

In Which We Stretch Out A Little More

Yikes and away, you solar sailing kite!

IKAROS launched today, and I am pleased

To say all's looking well. Powered by light

This tech could take us to the stars! I'm seized

With admiration at what we can do

When we've a mind to try, e'en in these days

When human space flight is under review

By bean-counters and naysayers. I praise

Those dreamers in Japan who made this real.

Nor is that all that that vehicle sent out:

AKATSUKI is Venus-bound to steal

Her mist-enshrouded secrets. There's no doubt

Today's a day to crow and celebrate

Our curiosity. Rewards await!

In Which I Am Creeped Out By Doom Presaging Mascots

Great Britain's brought us horrors before now
The monster Frankenstein built, just to name
One mem'rable example. Oh, but how
Those limeys have surpassed themselves! The same
Imaginations that once wrought the case
Of Jekyll and of Hyde, of Wicker Men,
Of gothic horror elegance, same place
That gave us Slake Moths and Remade, that den
Of terror and of nightmares now gives birth
To twin Cyclop'ean horrors that may yet
Surpass them all. O, poor unready Earth,
That soon shall feel their sprightly tread, I bet
Your children's screams already peal their fears.
Just wait 'til their dominion in two years!

In Which My Least Favorite Season Decides To Start

Another reason that I do not love

To live where I do happened just a bit

Ago. The warnings were quite faint above

My music as I took my gloves off, quit

A-hacking at my backyard overgrowth

And betook to enjoy some TV shows.

Instead I cranked the radio and both

Laughed and whined; there may be tornadoes!

'Tis nearly 32 years since one ripped

Through town in '78; we well may

Be due for yet another. We are gripped

Firm in the angry glove of Thor. Someday

These warnings might apply to me and mine,

But for today, I do assure: I'm fine.

In Which Another Good'Un Leaves Us

My parents' home bears witness to his skill

In carpentry; my freezer, too, has held

Much bounty from those fishing trips. Dear Bill,

Called Famous in my old blog, I'm compelled

To thank you for so much, and I'm so glad

I had the chance before we lost you. Oh,

I smile right through my tears; the fun we've had

As families can n'er be stolen, though

Your presence 'mongst us has been, far too soon.

Alternative bird festivals, for one,

And endless chats at coffee, through 'til noon...

I missed the house boat on Lake Powell but, son,

That one was for you grown ups anyhow.

I'll miss you so! Wish you were here right now.

META SONNET: In Which I Narrowly Miss Repeating Myself

I'm off the rails, confronting what I've feared,
A near-miss repetition! Already
Have I, right in this blog, quite roundly cheered
A comic that I like. Perilously
I nearly wrote again about Chew; just
As I began to type I thought to check --
A step I hate to take, but take I must;
I'm fallible -- I'm grateful that this tech
I here employ allows so quick a search!
'Tis a good comic, but the world's still vast;
Too much so to repeat. Left in the lurch
A meta sonnet bails me out at last.
It's Frunday, and shift work has drained me dry.
Sometimes placeholder verse is all I'll try.

In Which I Call Myself Out For Committing Grave Errors

I'm old enough to know much better than
To hurry on the days, and weeks, and years.
Though I expect to have a good lifespan,
Surprises do occur, and my career's
Not really what I'd call just starting, so
I chide myself a bit, to find I long
For these two weeks to hurry by; I go
Quite soon to Balticon. But it is wrong
To treat that time as worthless. I have made
Commitments e'en beyond the greatest one:
To make each moment count rather than fade
In idleness. E'en worse, I also shun
This summer, for I've plans laid for the fall
That thrill me more; mayhap the most of all.

In Which I Wish Atlantis FSM Speed (And Pay No Attention To The Tears)

Few things on earth excite me like a launch
Of big tin cans of people into space.
And often many tissues, for to staunch
My tears are needed; I screw up my face
And cry in pride and awe (and jealousy).
Today's was diff'rent, though; there's only two
More shuttle missions left, then we will be
A-paying fares to Russia. I am blue
E'en as I wonder with dear IsoBan
How can the generation who first tried
Not join me in deploring this odd con,
This bait-and-switch. Manned space travel has died
In my homeland, and with it my pastime:
"Winos For Souyeuz" won't be fun to rhyme.

Interstellar Feller: Mutiny On The Grokulator!

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...

'Tis thus quite in flagrante, their queen's state,
In which they catch her when they burst on in,
Our mutineers. The ancient and her mate
Have our Yectara quite absorbed in sin --
Though Pepi's none too active, merely stares
Up at the chamber's ceiling, unconcerned
With how he's being used. We doubt he cares,
Wherever he has got to, e'en when burned
By laser fire (some trigger fingers can't
Be readily restrained; thus the surprise
Is not one). Soon Yectara hears the chant
"Surrender!" led by Tribruno. Her eyes
Grow narrow; they're in hearing range; she speaks
But Doctor Vuhl's solution holds. She weeps.

In Which I Press My Nose Against More Virtual Glass

Bus-envy is not common, at least not
Amongst the saner people whom I know.
I would include myself within that lot,
Except today, when gladly I would go
And squeeze myself on board Bus Number Three
(Or One: I won't play fav'rites), with my friends
A-touring Kennedy Space Center. See,
Another NASA Tweetup's on again!
And Summer Ash and Kelly Hickman are
Both kickin' it with Miles O'Brien's crew
And many other Space Tweeps. I am far
Away, but there in spirits, there with you.
Winos for NASA, here's to you: clink clink.
And FSMspeed to Atlantis! Drink!

In Which It May Not Yet Be Spring

My lilacs bow like Atlas 'neath the weight

Of many inches of wet, sloppy snow.

It's far from Fortean to have, so late,

Such quantity dumped on us, but, you know

I'm really done with this. O Baltimore,

Weird city I shall visit just weeks hence,

Please tell me you shall have sunshine in store

And balmy weather. My wish is intense

To feel true springtime! But I should be glad:

The rototilling didn't go as deep

As shall be needed; moisture won't be bad

For this, our effort. Meanwhile I'll just keep

My snow boots and my shovel handy. Sigh.

Just months ago snow so gladdened my eye...

In Which I Team Up With @Ghostfinder To Mess With Your Pea Pickers, Pilgrim

The West is where I hang my tattered hat

At present, and, as of this morning, where

My next big writing project takes place. That

Excites me, and it pleases me to share

The news! My good pal Adam Christopher,

A voodoo steampunk master (horror, too)

Is teaming up with me (we did confer

This very morning early); our aim's to do

Up Weird West creeped-out fiction like no one

Has yet attempted. We are just the team

To do it, too, in process having fun

At vast unhealthy levels, it would seem.

So git those spurs on, little buckaroo,

'Cause soon enough something will holler "Boo!"

In Which I Mourn Two More Greats: Frank Frazetta & Lena Horne

Less awesome stalks the world than once did as

We lost a man whose pictures haunt our dreams

And a great lady, cool and smooth as jazz

Itself. Oh how much duller this day seems

With both Frazetta gone, and Lena Horne.

Their gifts to us outlast them, and will do

So long hence. How I cherish my few worn

And tattered paperbacks the master drew

The covers for; and Lena's voice still smooths

My roughened edges as I write this. We

Were truly graced who loved them both; this soothes

Me e'en as I regret I did not see

Ms. Horne in concert, ever. Never let

Such chances pass you by; do not forget!

In Which We Kind Of Already Did Mother's Day But I Can't Let The Actual Day Pass By Without Saying Something

Shift work means that I'm missing Mother's Day.
We celebrated last week: Chinese food
(Which she can't get in Togie) goes some way
Towards pleasing her; no fete should not include
Chop suey when it's for her, this I know!
I felt for her at Lowes and other stores
Where pots of flowers, blooming, out for show
Kept tempting her. Her fav'rite springtime chores
All center on their planting. She and dad
Are good at raising things and taking care
Of what they treasure, even through the bad
Old frosty times like now, but she did spare
These hothouse plants; too soon for them, as she
Well knows and kindly taught to Kris and me!

In Which Ground Is To Be Broken

My worst friend has the best plan for my yard:
A rented rototiller soon will tear
Into its soil; I hope it won't be hard
To do, but if it is, of course I'll share
A lot of beer to thank him for the toil.
'Tis not the whole expanse he'll overturn,
Just a small garden plot. We've lovely soil
Here in Cheyenne, though of course there's concern:
The growing season's short, but still I hope
To grow some beets and turnips, carrots, some
Nice fennel, parsnips, rutabega. Nope,
Not going for the fancy stuff. That's dumb
Here on the high plains, unless one has built
A full greenhouse. That's "someday" to the hilt!

In Which Words Tend To Fail: Asterios Polyp

I'm sure that no resemblance comes by chance,
And so the fact that Mr. Polyp's head
Looks like a cutting tool at ev'ry glance
Means much in Mazzucchelli's book. I've read
Much on its central problem, which results
When too much intellect goes uncombined
With character to balance it. Adults
Oft fail if this is paid too little mind.
And this book's world demands attention paid
To subtleties of line and form and yes,
Of character. Each person is portrayed
Much more by drawing style than one might guess.
What's said does help the story to unfold,
But what is not -- that's how the story's told.

Interstellar Feller: In Which A Warning Goes Astray

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...


The creak that seemed so certain to betray
Yectara's loyal lackey's gone unheard!
The mutineers, each who must have his say
Drown out the creaking limbs to get a word
Into this great debate. With this success
There's naught that stands between the Ancient and
Her target. Soon Yectara's bleak distress
In private is invaded. "Pardon, ma'am--"
"What is it?" snaps the queen. "Cannot you see
I'm occupied?" The harshness softens. "Oh,
It's you. Come here, my darling, and kiss me.
Yes, kiss and love me as only you know
How best to do." The module works its spell;
The warning's lost in loving. All's not well.

In Which I Bid Facebook A Not-So-Fond Farewell

This has been coming for a long time now.
One straw always looks innocent and light
Until one bows 'neath many. I'll allow
I bore more than I should have; I'll not fight
With anyone o'er what it finally took.
The ratio of benefit against
Annoyance long has caused me, yes, to look
Askance at Facebook; I for long have sensed
Someday I'd leave it for good reason. Schemes
With "features" that just mock my privacy
And open up abuses despots' dreams
Could barely outline, all add up to be
Not worth it to play chess or simply chat.
There's other places where I can do that.

In Which Some Tables Are Slightly Turned

A friend sold Dad his pickup; so began

A fine scenario nobody meant

To generate, but now this bustling man

Is getting just a taste of how we've spent

The years with him. A big truck, blank and white

Looks like all of the other pickups parked

All 'round the busy stores. This is a slight

And satisfying irony it's sparked:

Now he can't find it either, sometimes. He

Has trouble, too, betimes, with the seat belt,

Not unlike what his wife has often; she

Has lev'rage trouble spooling it out, felt

Quite stupid often as he sighed in wait.

In this, at last, my Mom has found her mate.

In Which A Home Improvement Hoedown Needs Some Light

A home improvement hoedown I have had,

New pickets on the back fence, and, inside,

Built-in bookshelves for one room (I'm so glad;

'Tis one dream I've long cherished). Still undried

The shelves themselves drip on sawhorses, so

It being Mother's day times two real soon

(This month's her birthday, too), off we did go,

To Office Max. We found one made her swoon

And also, there, a lamp I've fancied. As

I hate to shop, it pleased me, then, to make

Both purchases (efficiency, it has

The pow'r to move me strangely). We did take

The lamp home to my house, only to find

No bulb within. The store clerks, though, were kind.

In Which A Remedy Is Very Strongly Suggested

A fit of rage can happen in a snap,

When someone says the wrong thing, when a look

Makes you feel dumb or small, when all the crap

A day might offer happens, when you cook

As though the lid's too tight and pressure's built

Beyond what you can take, when you're about

To scream and yell, or tear your hair from guilt

Or a misunderstanding, when the shout

You need so to release cannot be heard,

When tears could come but shouldn't, when a cry

Would only make thinks worse, when vision's blurred

By angry tears or just exhaustion, I

Am there with you; Remember and take heart

It doesn't mean a thing that we're apart.

In Which I Have Lots Of Fun With The Sixth Gun

The West was always weird, but now we've got

A stranger tale than I have ever seen

Outside a Deadlands game. Right on the spot

I knew I'd found a winner. Here's the scene:

The Pinkertons are after The Sixth Gun,

The pow'rs of which are as yet quite unknown,

But which I know, since this is Cullen Bunn

And Brian Hurtt, that, when at last it's shown,

My socks will be shot off. The story's told

In finest campfire style, and crisply drawn.

I will not soon forget the ugly, old

And ghastly hangéd men who speak upon

Such matters as would turn one's hair quite white,

E'en ere the real bad guys rear up in sight.

In Which I Geek Out All Over Free Comic Book Day

The first one's free, the pusher says in all
The greatest urban legends, and it's so --
At least in terms of what I meekly call
My drug of choice, which I am sure you know
Is comic books. And yes, you can get high
On these, just ask one Lars Paul Linden, who
Once wrote a novel on this subject. I
Still seek a real-life bookdopebook, all through
The racks at Heroes Only, or wheree'er
My wand'rings take me. And this Saturday
I take another chance. I'll soon be there,
Though I have missed the party, as one may
Who is a poor shift worker. Nonetheless,
Free Comic Book Day's come again, I guess!