Haiku Monday

Wheaten likes inks:
O! Shakiest liken new.
Shaken likest wine.

This is a haiku of anagrams of my name. (I fudged the 'O!') I LIKE IT!

It's haiku Monday.
Because I said so, Thomas.
You always doubt things.

What's a madrigal?
I think I'd like to write one.
Something about lutes.

Everything's a hai
Ku if you try hard enough
And don't bother with


Okay- I quit for now. Apostrophe: Hey! Haikus. Did you ever think you would come to this? Everybody writing you, willy-nilly? You know what you should have done? 5-11-5. You'd be a little less balanced, but then ten fingers wouldn't cut it. A bit more dedication would be required.

Birthday Cake for John

Made this cake/
these cupcakes
for John's birthday.
It's the house from Up!
The cupcakes are balloons.

The cake is a Pillsbury Devil's Food, one box, and the colored icing is a stout buttercream, which I made myself and colored with regular food coloring.


The details on the house are made of the colored buttercream, piped out of tiny parchment-paper pastry bags I folded up.

There's also a crumby screenshot of the house from the movie (for comparison).

It took a long time. I guess I've chosen to depict the moment before Carl's house first lifts off, because I included a shrub (azaleas, I presume.)

Killer Comet, Interlude

The local Farmington Falls watering hole. It looks like a place with more stink than square feet, and is probably poorly insulated- like maybe the first owner was a moonshine-man-with-a-little-extra-interior-wood-paneling/entrepreneur.
There are neon light signs that say "Beer," and "Whiskey," and "Light Beer." Clearly, the customers don't put no stock in fancy name-brand booze.
Everyone is quiet except two chubby, middle-aged, pink-faced women who cry at a table upon which there are two floral arrangements and photos of Shirtless Girl and Headless Dude, may their remains rest in peace.
This doesn't make sense. Did the mothers bring these things from the wake or are they having some kind of hick funeral service in Dusty's Slurps n' Burps?
Anyway, now you know what they're crying about.

Men are at the bar. Either skinny or fat, with teeth in various stages of disrepair. They sip Beer beers out of Cans. They wear those hunting caps with the ear flaps and trucker caps with pictures of trailers on them. You know. There's a smattering of denim overalls and denim jackets and sleeveless t-shirts and boots. Everywhere boots.

Man in Prominent Red T-Shirt: T'ain't right.
Man in "These colors don't run" T-shirt: T'ain't right a'tall. A mother ain't s'posed to outlive her own childs.
Man in Denim Vest: And they wernt even done in proper by a huntin accident or nothin. Some devil-worshippin', city-dwellin' meteorite.
Man in Red T: And a pervert too, I hear 'em tell. Got the FBI and the sheriff workin on it.
Man in "These colors": Yeah, workin' on it. But I been talking to Meryl at the station, and she ain't seen hide nor haar of a murderin comet.
Man in Denim Vest: Yeah, and the prom is this Friday--that's our kids this space creep is after!
Men in background: I feel helpless!
And I'm angry about it!
Yeah- mad and angry too!
Man in Denim Vest: (Stands) Those military folks, they'll wanna lock 'im up and study 'im--but you cain't stop a force a nature what never had a proper upbringing!
Men in background: You gotta kill somthin' like that!
Kill it with guns!
We've got guns!
Yeah, lotsa guns!
They go like, BANG! and buddabuddabudda!
Man in Red T: (Stands too) We'll go gitim our own dang selves! With the guns an' all!
Man in "Colors" T: (Stands and smashes beer can on forehead in expression of enthusiasm) Blaargh! LET'S GIT!
Crying Lady: Wait, Gil! He's real big and made of rocks and junk. I mean, real big. (Sniff) I cain't stand anymore sorrow, Gil.
(It doesn't matter which one's Gil. Pick your favorite.)
Gil: S'all right honey. I'll takea flamethrower too.
The Men: Yeah! We're glad to be doing something! Waiting made us feel effeminate! Let's shoot bullets out of guns!
They leave.
Crying Lady: (Shouts after them) Wait you knuckleheads! He's on fire already!
Other Crying Lady: (Puts hand on her friend's shoulder. Ruefully,) Those boys of ours.

this made me laugh...

"The remix version with Jay-Z gives greater attention to illicit diamond practices than West’s original version of the song. The lyrics above detail some of the atrocities committed to supply the world’s desire for diamonds. By the end of the song though, both rappers drift away from the theme and give in to bombastic proclamations about their respective lofty status in the hip-hop community."

http://www.seedwiki.com/wiki/protest_songs/kanye_wests_diamonds_from_sierra_leone_remix?wpid=268695

I got a million of em

This is an old classic of mine.

"Well, I liked Requiem for a Dream but I thought Pi was totally derivative."

Ha cha cha

"Sure, that novel is a good suggestion. But I think it's a bit too verbose to be considered the quintessential Hemingway."
"Fine then. In your opinion, what's a Hemingway?"
"Oh, I'd guess about 200 pounds."

Killer Comet, 4

Milky Way Trailer Park, Hobble, TN 1400hrs. It's shady--enough to give the impression of twilight even though it's afternoon in the South. A governmenty-looking black sedan drives up to a booth with the word "INFORMATION" painted in block letters over a screen door. The paint is faded inside and out, and there are leaves and squirrels inside the booth.
General Tompkins barks at the squirrels.
Dan: Easy there, General! These ladies have to help us find Doctor Gardener. Looks back at General Blaine. Cuz there ain't no one else around here who can tell us where he's parked. 'Sa dang ghost...trailer park, sir.
Blaine: Well, it certainly looks that way. To Greenberg and Cho. You sure we have the correct location? I enjoy a chopper ride as much as the next military man, but we haven't got time to waste.
Cho: Notably nervous, cleaning his glasses. Sir, these are the doctor's last known whereabouts.
Greenberg: The Tennessean published an op-ed Gardener wrote about solar flares in May of last year. They have Milky Way Trailer Park as his return address.
The squirrels scamper out a window and General Tompkins follows.
Dan: Hey, General! Get back here! Runs after General Tompkins.
General Tompkins chases the squirrels through some sad-looking bramble and around two decrepit motor homes and stops in a clearing. When the men catch up, Dan, then Blaine, then the two scientists who are out of breath, they see a smallish, old, twinkie-shaped trailer. It's been painted dark blue with house paint, which is peeling, and covered with glow-in-the-dark star stickers. On the roof, such as it is, is an inflatable kiddie pool covered in aluminum foil and resting on a stack of pizza boxes, angled towards the sky. The doctor's mailbox is shaped like a rocket ship with a chaise lounge on top. It's full of unopened letters and surrounded by more.
Dan: Well, I reckon we won't be needing to ask them squirrels for directions.
Blaine: You lab-coats said this man was a doctor! It looks like a lunatic nine-year-old lives here!
Greenberg: H-h-he is, sir. Once very well-respected...
As Greenberg speaks, there's a slow zoom-in on the trailer.

Dr. Stanislaus Gardener received his doctoral degree from an experimental university in Oxford in 1967. At the time, many American scientists were entrenched in the campaign to get an American man on the moon. Combining this with general open-mindedness of the 1960's, and perhaps to a small extent, the extreme open-mindedness of the physicists, engineers, and astronomers who were attempting to aid in the space race and in the study of the effects of experimental LSD, meant that Dr. Gardener was accepted into the community. Of course, there were some older psychologists and astrologers, mostly on the East Coast, who thought Gardener's theories were, well, insane. He postulated that the physical systems which governed the movements and behaviors of cosmic bodies and groups were so complex, that it was beneficial to treat these systems as part physical and part metaphysical: similar to the way we regard the human brain.

Unnoticed by the men, and old, gnarled hand sticks out of a doggie door/flap holding a piece of kielbasa sausage. General Tompkins sniffs the air.

Of course, psychologists were displeased because they had struggled for nearly a century with the perception that theirs was not a true science. The astronomers laughed at his theories, considering them too absurd for response, but Dr. Gardener could still find willing audiences, even up until 1975. At that time, he published a paper: "The Benefits of Electroconvulsive Therapy in Regulating Moon Phases." One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was released the same week, and the tide of public opinion turned against "shock therapy," as it's called, and scientific opinion turned against Dr. Gardener. He lost his post at NMU, his colleagues, friends, and it's said he forswore humankind. Some of his papers, old and new, are occasionally re-run or published, but generally in the April editions of the periodicals in which they appear. That's in time for April Fool's Day. He hasn't been seen in public for 15 years. I, uh, don't want to, erm, alarm you, General, sir. But there's a chance he might not speak to us at all.

General Blaine begins to fume, but before he starts shouting, General Tompkins runs at the doggie door and goes inside.

Dan: General Tompkins! Runs up to the door and starts banging on it, turns to Blaine Sir! That crazy doctor has my dog!