In Which I Realize I've Probably Overdosed On Scott Sigler A Bit

Today, from Germany, we have the news:
A boy, hit by a pebble from the sky
Was "only grazed," got just a scar or bruise
Upon his hand. Yet somehow, it was spry
Enough, this rock, to make a crater in
The nearby earth of near one foot across!
Supposedly the boy was hit first when
The rock came down. Of course we're at a loss
To say how this sequence could be correct.
A crater, then a graze makes much more sense.
Regardless, my concern is if they've checked
The boy for blue triangles. It's intense,
The thought that Sigler's novels could come true!
I wait with bated breath. How about you?

In Which I Face A Weird Dilemma

I am returned, and so pleased to have found

In what I've christened my Mud Room of Squee,

My own pre-ordered copy, strangely bound,

Of J.C. Hutchins' print debut. How he

And Weisman pulled out all the stops! It's come

With a great heap of horror-flair to sift

Through and investigate as I do thumb

Its pages. Where to start, though? I'm adrift.

I've called to hear Zach Taylor's voice mail bit,

And poked around the Brinkvale website, natch.

The podcast prequel gave some hints that fit

My expectations, but there's e'er this catch:

Play with the items, follow where they lead,

Or first open the book and start to read?

What I Wonder As I Wander Around Denver International Airport

Each time I come back home I have some time

To while away while waiting for the van

That is my last leg on this trail of grime

And squalor that gets me back to Cheyenne,

I wander the great teepee pile we call

The Jeppeson Terminal at DIA,

And wonder if there is among them, all

These other wand'rers, one whom I just may

Have met before or known or been flamed by.

I wonder, too, if anyone but me

Is list'ning to the kind of songs that I

Have pumping through my earbuds. There might be

A fan of Marian Call in this same bar!

Or of FZ or Bhtch tunes. How bizarre!

BONUS SONNET: On The iPod Belonging To My Sister

The thing has got more cheese than Tillamook,

My sister's iPod. It's a time machine.

The 80s live forever in her book

(She had a better time back as a teen).

Glass Tiger vies with Journey for her love,

And with Bad Company and Kiss and Bon

Jovi and Queen and Eminem and (of

That last she claims it's walking tunes upon

Which she depends to set the beat) and hey,

No Quarterflash? What's happened to this girl?

A-Ha, she's got that, salted with, I'll say

For fairness' sake, the Foo Fighters and -- pearl!

Some U2 and The Cure and Siouxsie Sioux

She's grown a bit since 1982.

In Which I Consider A Strange Thoroughfare

A farmer's mart that had nary a stalk

Of local, fresh asparagus, I deem

A failure. Nor is this the only shock

To be had here along that driver's dream,

The T.V. Highway, home to ev'ry chain

Store, taco truck, "adult" emporium

And hair salon. Allow me to explain:

Through Beaverton and "Hillsburrito," umm..

And other towns I'm sure, this one highway

Boasts all that Portland proper would forget,

Pushed to the side, hid like that bad toupee

One sported in the 70s. My bet

Is that's how here a Lowe's and Home Depot

Are planted side-by-side in a neat row.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Wish A Certain Podcaster A Very Happy Birthday!

A busy man is Geo Hrab; alas

Not even his industr'ousness can save

Him from th'advance of age, the years that pass

Unasked as we pursue all that we crave.

Each drum he beats announces that more time

Has come and gone; each podcast he records

Names out the best of what each week sublime

Has brought to his attention, and the hordes

Of Geologic fans try each Thursday

To crash his server when the call goes out

That new high silliness has made its way

Onto the internet. Let us all shout

Together, in his honor, "Vibraphone!"

And "Happy Birthday" ere the day has flown.

In Which I Contemplate Oregon Tides

A tide recedes and suddenly great rocks

Come up for air. At least I think there were

Some rocks beneath th'encrusted life and flocks

Of seagulls circling overhead. With her

Dog Jack a-snapping at the waves my sis

And I explored the slipp'ry rocks to find

The sort of things I'd been most sad to miss

The day before. What I had had in mind

Were tide pools like we saw so long ago

In California when I was a kid.

But here tide rocks have much the same, and so

I got my fill of starfish, mussels, did

Observe anenomes, one tiny crab,

And rarer still: a wild sea-going lab.

In Which I Brazenly Risk Being Pulled Down To Sunken Rl'yeh Several Times

Beside us and this lodge where we will pass

Our night tonight, I hear Cthulhu's roar.

A soup of clam cum, goo from mollusk ass

Shark spit, fish urine, seagull snot and more

Doth churn and crash in waves against a mix

Of ground-up glass, shell bits, rocks, plant rot, and

Some severed feet and rubber ducks and sticks.

I guess that stuff is commonly called sand,

The fluid called the sea, but let's be real:

A Great Old One won't live just anywhere

In anywhat. I'm sure, though, that he'd feel

At home wheree'er he wants, would never care

If it were blood or water where he swam

As long as he's believers, which I am.

In Which I Provide An Encomium To A City That Could Be My Spiritual Home

This Portland, Oregon's, my kind of place

The mayor rode his bike in the parade

Along with Segway gangs out keeping pace

Along the route with bands and floats. I'd grade

The total effort "A." To top things off

My dream pub I discovered here this day:

The Lucky Lab, a brewery and trough

For drinkers' dogs (and bicycles, hooray!).

I've yet to mention Pow'lls, but on this trip

I'm prob'ly not to make it there to fall

Upon my knees to angels' song; I'll skip

It just this once, as long as we four, all,

Return to Lucky Labrador's for more

Organic Pale Ale; I do so implore!

In Which I Ponder The Daily Fetch-A-Thon That Is My Sister's Life With Her New Dog

The newest member of our fam'ly's pack

Of crazy dogs, mayhap the craziest

Is Krissy's, a lab mix, whose name is Jack.

Built like a tank, excitable and, yes,

Relentless as a charge of army ants.

His rubber ball must constantly be thrown,

Best into mud or grass, or bedding plants

Along the fence. Long after one has grown

Well sick of playing, after Jack's big tongue

Is coated in a slick of mud and grass

Well mixed with drool, that ball must still be flung

And flung some more, or else Jack will harrass

One with his slimy toys all day and night.

It's what he loves the most, as is his right.

In Which I Gloat Over A Well-Earned Beer

Someone's idea of heaven surely is

Hot chicks with power tools. He'd love today,

When Kris and I were same. To ruin his

Imaginings a bit, a cop held sway

O'er these proceedings; that would be our Dad,

Armed with a hammer, prybar and a scowl

I'd never want turned my way. Yes we've had

Us quite a time. Now I've thrown in the towel

For one day. I must say it ain't half bad,

This deck we built for Krissy, and we've earned

The Bud Light we are gulping on it now,

Exhausted, bleeding slightly and sunburned.

Our next item of bus'ness is some chow,

We'll grill up on my sister's brand-new grill.

Some dead cow and grilled corn, oh yes we will!

Sonnet Duet: An Interview With The One, The Only, MeiLinMiranda

Sonneteers note: This evening I had the rare and lovely opportunity to meet with the fabulous @MeiLinMiranda (author of the hit web serial An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom in person at a funky little club in Northeast Portland. I had a few questions cranked out beforehand; while she answered them I accepted an invitation to scrawl an extra special Bonus Sonnet on the wall at Rumpspankers. To see that you'll have to pay them a visit or squint at the twitpic here.

O Meilin, what inspired your kingdom's start?

A small attempt to proffer smutty fare.

O Meilin, is Timmin first in your heart?

He is the son that I shall never bear.

Now Emmae's tale -- that's really some strong stuff.

Alas, it shall be less so when I'm done.

It's hot. When do you know it's hot enough?

When readers find it hard to be alone.

The Lover's Temple's wisdom, could it spread?

If only Western culture weren't so staid.

How do you keep this kingdom in your head?

I couldn't if I had not wiki's aid.

Is there a print or aud'iobook in store?

Of course, and ebooks, Kindle, maybe more.

EARLY EDITION: In Which I Laud A Shuttle Driver

My shuttle from Cheyenne took off at six,

Though I was told six-thirty was the time

When I would catch my ride. Oh such a fix

I found myself in! It felt like a crime.

"No problem," said the clerk by phone, "At eight

Another will be by. You'll be just fine;

You shouldn't even find yourself too late

To catch your flight at DIA. At nine

And still no shuttle, I began to freak

A bit, when up pulled wondrous Jim.

His van express for handicapped and weak

Miss Jeanie. All my gratitude to him

For letting me on board, and for his fast

Drive to the airport; I am here at last!

In Which I Become A (Bad) Remote Viewer...For SCIENCE

Well, "Oh, my SCIENCE" where am I right now?

Says Richard Wiseman each morning at eight

(That's my time in Wyoming; must allow

For time zones. At three GMT he'll wait

For us to make our psychic guesses for

The Twitter-based experiment he's made).

We had a test on Monday, and my score

Was what one might expect; were it a grade

It would be "F." This suits me, yes it does;

I'm skeptical of psychics and their claims.

I worry just a bit, though, that because

I disbelieve, I'm buggering their aims.

I hope indeed that I do not sandbag

The data set. That would be quite a drag.

In Which I Become A Clock-Watching Fool

Two days from now, almost right to this hour
I'll be crammed in a nasty airplane seat
Bound for points west. It's barely in my pow'r
To keep my cool. Vacation time is sweet,
E'en when, as I shall do, it's to do work:
My sister's house did not come with a deck,
A common but a not-so-charming quirk
Which needs redressed quite soon; she'll be a wreck
Until the job is done. Sherrods do not
Do well without a place to sit outdoors,
Sip beer and watch the birds from a cool spot
(And by sip beer - that's anything but Coors).
Two days and counting down! Meanwhile I sit
At work on my Friday, and just fidget.