a moment of silence for nipsey russell

Heavens to Murgatoid! It's me, The Haiku Master, and I don't know if it's something in the air, but yet another cool person has up and died on us... and this time it was our nation's Poet Laureate, Nipsey Russell (link goes to Los Angeles' ABC affiliate)!

R.I.P. Poet Laureate Nipsey Russell: 1924-2005

Poet, game show contestant, professional celebrity: had he been able to free himself of that juvenile need for rhyming, he might have even made a fine Haiku Master. But he chose to go his own way, and who are we to question the results?

Unfortunately, this means our so-called President now gets to pick the next Poet Laureate, on top of his two-pack of Supreme Court appointees! Is there no justice?! No, no -- don't dwell on the bad; dwell on the good. And what better way to celebrate the goodness that was Nipsey than with one of his prize-winning poems?

Beauty's only skin-deep
But ugly's clear to the bone.
Beauty often fades away,
But ugly holds its own.

Truer words have rarely been spoken. Goodnight, and god bless.

Best,

so long daddy-o: maynard g. krebs, r.i.p.

Bust out your hankies, 'ku believers! It's me, The Haiku Master, and do I ever have some heartbreaking news for you: legendary Beat poet Maynard G. Krebs has slapped his last bongo (link goes to his New York Times obituary)!

Maynard G. Krebs Never Met A Bhong... Er, Bongo He Didn't Like

Born Bob Denver, Krebs was one of his generation's guiding lights, inspiring such diverse talents as Kerouak, Ginsburg, Burroughs, Von Zipper, Squigmond, and Rogers, not to mention countless others. Unfortunately, the market for Beat poetry dried up after the '50s, forcing him to turn to the cowardly field of acting just to make ends meet. I'm not sure what kind of roles he played -- a stint on a Lord of the Flies-esque sitcom comes to mind, though I can't recall its name -- but you can probably get more details from the Times obit.

So shine on, you long-gone crazy diamond! Know that at least one high-profile celebrity crimefighter shall miss your keen observations on the human condition, and that many glasses of fine American whiskey shall be emptied in your honor this evening!

With nary a coconut in sight.

Best,

i guess rainier didn't get the memo

Hello there, folks. Yes it's me, The Haiku Master, but I'm a bit perturbed tonight -- Monaco's Prince Rainier III up and died, after I specifically asked cool people to stop doing so!

From Left: Grace Kelly And Prince "Smooth Operator" Rainier III

Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen -- the world has lost one of its greatest lovers. Hell, not even the legendary Billy Dee Williams could fill Rainier's silk slippers when it came to the sweet science of amoré! After bedding enough women to make Wilt Chamberlain look like a choir boy, Rainier finally settled down with American actress Grace Kelly, of Partridge Family fame. It was a storybook wedding, one that virgins and old maids still weep about on balmy June nights, when the moon is full.

As Prince, Rainier ruled Monaco with a deservedly iron fist, whipping it into the "hugely successful financial centre and... haven for the super-rich" it is today. He played no favorites, rolled heads when the situation called for it, and never took "no" for an answer.

Despite having enough on his plate to overwhelm a lesser man, Rainier also found time to become a Saturday morning idol to millions of children via his beloved television persona, Captain Kangaroo. I was one of those kids, and I could never thank him enough for the countless hours of enjoyment given to me by his antics.

Rainier Mugging For The Camera On The Set Of His Hit TV Show, Captain Kangaroo

So farewell, sweet Prince! May your cup never go empty, and may your harem always be full!

Best,

johnnie cochran, superstar: rest in peace

Horrible news, haiku fanatics! For the first time in more than a decade, I, The Haiku Master, am without legal representation -- superstar lawyer Johnnie Cochran has filed his last brief (link goes to The Guardian)!

The Best Goddamn Lawyer The World Ever Knew

If I had a nickel for every time the man pictured above pulled me out of an inexplicable legal jam, I'd be in jail, 'cause Johnnie charged a damn sight more than a nickel. But he was worth every penny! Now who is the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 supposed to turn to for a high-powered defense when the walls of this thin, cruel world come closing down?! Mark Geragos? Ha! Ask Scott Peterson for a recommendation on that fraud!

Ah, well. I suppose I'll give Shelton's attorney, Peter O'Neill, a try. He better know his stuff, for broken laws seem to go hand in hand with the noble puruits of spreading haiku and fighting crime.

Best,


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P.S. - Stop bitching, more installments of "Drunk in the Heart of Texas" are coming soon enough. For one, the Sultan of Syllables was deathly ill with a head cold for three or four days. For two, I may or may not have bought an addictive new video game on the cheap. Until I talk to a new attorney, I'm not admitting anything.

goodbye, you weird #$%@er

Welcome back, friends. It's me, The Haiku Master, with my final thoughts on the untimely death of the infamous, nefarious, pirate king of gonzo journalism, Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson.

Two Dead Men: Hunter S. Thompson (Left) and Oscar Zeta Acosta, Circa 1971

Based on the latest round of follow-up reports, the leading wisdom has it that H.S.T. blew his own head off in reaction to his rapidly declining health, which was preventing him from living the kind of life he preferred to live: Wild. Rambunctious. Kinetic. These traits don't come easy to a 67-year-old man who had undergone hip replacement surgery and a broken leg over a year's time. But would that alone be enough to drive a warrior like Thompson to suicide? Were there other thoughts in play?

In 1964, Thompson wrote an article for The National Observer entitled "What Lured Hemingway to Ketchum?" (The article is reprinted in Thompson's The Great Shark Hunt.) In 1961, another honored American writer, Ernest Hemingway, also committed suicide, only with a shotgun. A year earlier, Hemingway had relocated to a very small, out of the way town in Idaho called Ketchum. Thompson's piece, obviously, was an exploration of what had brought "Papa" there, and ultimately to his death.

There are more than a few interesting passages in it:

"'That poor old man. [Hemingway] used to walk out there on the road in the evenings. He was so frail and thin and old-looking that it was embarrassing to see him. I was always afraid a car would hit him, and that would have been an awful way for him to go.'"

And:

"'We do not have great writers,' [Hemingway] explains to the Austrian in Green Hills of Africa. 'Something happens to our good writers at a certain age....You see we make our writers into something very strange....We destroy them in many ways.' But Hemingway himself never seemed to discover in what way he was being 'destroyed,' and so he never understood how to avoid it."

And:

"'Well,' said Hemingway, 'there's only one thing I live by -- that's having the power of conviction [in your writing] and knowing what to leave out.' He had said the same thing before, but whether he still believed it in the winter of his years is another matter. There is good evidence that he was not always sure what to leave out, and very little evidence to show that his power of conviction survived the war."

And finally:

"Perhaps [Hemingway] found what he came here for, but the odds are huge that he didn't. He was an old, sick, and very troubled man, and the illusion of peace and contentment was not enough for him -- not even when his friends came up from Cuba and played bullfight with him in the Tram. So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a shotgun."

If you've followed H.S.T.'s career as closely as the one true Sultan of Syllables, you'll no doubt see reflections of his elder incarnation in the words he wrote for Papa. I think he was an old man, afraid of becoming increasingly fragile, and probably more than a little embarrassed by the fact that, try as he might, he could no longer summon the old fire magic as forcefully and accurately as he had in his youth.

So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a 45-caliber handgun.

So goodbye and good riddance, you weird #$%@er; this world will not know your kind again. No matter how weak your reasons for leaving, you'll always be missed. Remembered. Honored. You did indeed stomp terra, and I have no doubt you're now doing the same in Valhalla.

And if you have any trouble, you can always send a telegram to the Right People. You know. Explaining your Position. Some asshole wrote a poem about that once, from what I understand.

But enough of this maudlin bullshit -- we'll be back to the usual dumb soon enough. In the meantime, go read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas if you haven't already; the Power of 'Ku commands you!

Best,

hunter better have a good goddamn explanation for this

Hello, readers. It's me again -- The Haiku Master -- still extremely distraught over the apparent suicide of one of America's great literary treasures, Hunter Stockton* Thompson.

It just doesn't make sense. H.S.T. was a legendary warrior, possessed of an indomitable free spirit and unbreakable iron will. He relished his own weirdness too much to remove it from the picture prematurely -- hell, he was the man who coined the phrase, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." Which really only leaves three explanations:

Nobody This Weird Kills Himself Without Good Reason

1) The government finally had him dead to rights, and was about to put him in prison for his remaining days;

2) He had recently been diagnosed with some kind of incurable, inoperable medical condition; or,

3) He has posthumously revealed himself to be the biggest bullshit writer of the 20th century.

Given that Thompson wouldn't have killed himself over Reason 1 until after a trial, that only leaves Reason 2. Because Reason 3 is just completely unacceptable, and will no doubt find him confined to a cage in Hell where a legion of betrayed, angry, former fans will beat him on the kidneys with branches 'til he pisses blood all day, every day, for the rest of time.

I'm sure it's Reason 2, though, or some variation of it. Come on -- this is Hunter Stockton Thompson we're talking about, after all. As his son, Juan, said in the official family statement to the Aspen Daily News, "He stomped terra."

Amen and selah to that.

Best,


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* Stockton, not "Stocton," as the widely reprinted AP report had it. Frikkin' amateur journalists.

r.i.p., h.s.t.

The infamous outlaw prince of gonzo journalism, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, is dead, and our world is exponentially poorer for it.

Hunter Stockton Thompson, 1937-2005

I could usually give two tugs of a dead dog's cock when a celebrity dies, but this, given the nature of his death...this is horrible.

Words fail. The books written by the man pictured above have been ingrained in my psyche since high school, and I wouldn't want to imagine a world where those books hadn't been written. If you've never read his Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, you owe it to yourself to do so. (And no, watching the movie doesn't count.)

After all, you don't think a dumb guy like me came up with a slick phrase like "two tugs of a dead dog's cock" on his own, do you? That's all the good Doctor.

At least one Justo Juez santaria candle will burn in your honor tonight, Doc. Wherever you are or aren't, as the case may be.

final hunt for the pygmy gorilla, pt. VI

***
CHAPTER VI

The R.A.H. Squadron made their move, storming the building with manic shouts of "Yo Joe!" But we seven -- myself, Joe, The Commando, Air Adventurer, Sea Adventurer, Man of Action, and Mike Power a.k.a. The Amazing Atomic Man -- were ready for them, having reaffirmed our belief in that fair notion of "all for one, and one for all!"

We gathered in the center of the briefing room in a star-shaped defensive formation so as to best strike at our enemies with our combined arsenal of kung fu, Haikung Fu, big frikkin' guns, and the like.

In the flash of an eye, the R.A.H.ers were on us, swarming like roaches. There were dozens of them, wearing gaudy uniforms emblazoned with goofy sounding names such as "Beachhead," "Nunchuk," "Wild Bill," "Shipwreck," "Big Ben," "Sergeant Slaughter," etcetera.

I will not lie to you -- the battle that ensued was glorious, a veritable cacophony of blood, guts, and brains that sent many a warrior soul to Valhalla. Better still, the Adventure Team suffered no casualties... as the R.A.H.ers proved to be the worst shots since Hinckley! Seemingly incapable of controlling their weapons, their bullets flew harmlessly over our heads, making it that much easier to mow them down like the dogs they were.

With his platoon all but gone, the R.A.H. leader soon found himself face-to-face with Joe, who was threatening him with a bloodstained knife!

"I'm warning you, stand back!" the leader said nervously. "Stand back or I'll shoot!"

"Go ahead, Duke, do your worst," said Joe.

The R.A.H. leader fired -- and as expected, the bullet sailed right over Joe's head! Joe struck, gutting Duke like a fish!

"That," Joe grunted, forcefully pulling his knife from Duke's gizzard, "is for telling people I don't exist, you 3 3/4" plastic turd!"

Duke slid to the floor, and the fight was finished -- another day saved by the one and only Adventure Team.

R.A.H.ers Like This Joker Made A Huge Tactical Error In Tussling With The Adventure Team

"God-damn, that felt good!" huffed The Commando, who had stripped off his shirt and was drenched in R.A.H. blood. "Those little wimps had that coming for a lo-o-o-o-o-ng time!"

"Tell me about it!" said Mike Power. "It was a real treat to flex my amazing atomic arm... around some Real American necks!"

"Yeah," agreed Air Adventurer. "We'll probably have to go on the lam as fugitives from justice, A-Team style, but damn if it wasn't worth it!"

"A-Team style...," Joe teased, "...or Adventure Team style, eh? Eh?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" asked Man of Action.

"I don't know," said Joe. "But if you think I'm saying we should get a heavily armed motor home and criscross the world in search of... adventure... then, yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying. Now who's with me, Adventure Team? All for one and..."

"...ONE FOR ALL!!!" everyone else shouted, throwing their hands on top of Joe's. Everyone, that is, except yours truly.

"Uh, sorry guys," I said. "It was great seeing you all again, but I really should be going. Got a, uh, dentist appointment next Tuesday that I can't miss."

"Well no offense, but who asked you?" said Joe. "For that matter, who are you?"

"Who am I?" I asked, surprised. "I'm The Haiku Master! Remember? You asked me to come help you fight the pygmy gorilla!?"

"Haiku Master?" muttered Man of Action. "I don't remember a Haiku Master... I remember The Astronaut. Did he write haikus?"

"Did he write haiku," I corrected.

"Oh, now I recognize you," said Joe. "You're Chuck Bukowski's sidekick, Wart. Right? I didn't know Chuck was here -- where is that old son of a gun?"

"No! Chu... Sensei Bukowski died years ago, and the whole Cobra Kai Haiku Order was annihilated shortly thereafter. I'm the one and only Haiku Master these days."

The Late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) Briefly Served With The Adventure Team In The 1970s, But Never Rated An Action Figure

"Oh, sorry about that. I'm an old man, and get easily confused," Joe offered.

"That's alright..."

At that precise moment, who should walk in but Emmanuel Lewis himself. True to Joe's word, he was wearing a pygmy gorilla suit, but held the heavy head mask in his tiny little hands.

"Sweet Mother of Moses!" he squeaked. "I've been sitting in that jungle for six hours now, Joe, and I won't take no more! Now pay up -- I'm out of here!"

And oh, how we laughed.

***
EPILOGUE

With that, the Adventure Team was off -- presumably to purchase a heavily armed motor home. As for myself, I returned to my top secret base of operations in the Baltimore suburbs to fight crime, write haiku, and reflect on my latest adventure. Or maybe re-read the first new issue of Grimjack for the seventh time and take a nap. One or the other.

When I finally got back, though, my phone was ringing off the hook; seemed the neighbor's dog had gotten itself stuck in a tree again. Ah, well! Rest is always at arm's reach when you're me... The Haiku Master!