In Which December Nights Are Chilly On A Bike

Heat up some soup! Put on the kettle, please!

A nighttime bike ride I did take, and while

I cannot say exactly I did freeze

'Twas cold enough, and this transformed my smile

To a determined rictus as I raced

Against the chill that wanted so to set

Into my bones and stay there. I outpaced

It, but just barely. It sounds nuts, I bet,

But then I ask you, why, though, should I spend

The extra money that I made tonight

On gasoline? Much rather would I send

Me to Toronto in the spring, and light

In Baltimore as well -- and yes, I know

The oil firms are still getting all my dough.

In Which I Don't Want To Miss The @TuacaCon Boat (But I Might)

Debauchery, thy name might truly be
Tuaca, beverage of failed pimps
And DragonCan'ts. Oh, how I long to see
What orange-flavored hijinks all these imps
I call my friends might now engage in. Ware,
P.G., and Phil, and Brand, and Kim, and, yes
Miss Christiana, Val and Laura, there
And Starla, Patrick, Dave, Paulette (I guess
They had to let in Paul or else he'd sic
His bunny slippers on them), also Chooch
And Viv! TuacaCon is no mean trick
To pull off. Throw in Sigler and (O, smooch!)
As virtual events go, count me in
As soon as I get off work, for the win!

Stanmageddon: In Which One Meme Dies And Another Is Born

My friends from Balticon have done me proud!
Comes now the news that last night, as they rocked
And rolled within a hotel room, too loud,
It seems, for one old man, who, it seems, knocked
(Or had some hotel lackeys do so) at
The door to our P.G.'s suite for to ask
They keep it down or just desperse. The cat
Who took my drinking buddies so to task
Was no less than Stan Lee! Oh, how I wince
To think the mighty fallen so that one
Who's caused such noise in his day now has since
Become such a naysayer at clean fun.
Scotchpocalypse is dead, I see; long live
The Stanmageddon. It has much to give.
Tweet

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 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!