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I'm listening to the very first Olivia Tremor Control album, Music from the Unrealized Film Script, Dusk at Cubist Castle, for the very first time, and I think I have a new favorite album for the time being....

I'm not sure how I missed this two issues ago in Locus, but Rich Horton, never a big fan of my stuff in the past, said this about Electric Velocipede #6 in his July short fiction review column:

The Spring Electric Velocipede is very impressive. This is the sixth issue of a 'zine which has previously published some interesting work, mostly slipstream but quite often more distinctly science fictional than similar 'zines. This is far and away the best issue so far. Among several strong stories, two stand out. William Shunn's "Why I Think I'll Be Staying in [sic] Tonight" is told by a man to a woman he has long been interested in, as he refuses her request for a date. Why? Well, he saw this implausibly beautiful woman, see... but it's not what you might think. It's subtly about the danger of getting what you ask for. Even better is Alan DeNiro's "A Keeper," a deliriously surrealistic SF story, set in Brasilia, under the rule of King Juan Juan. An artist, whose job, as with all other artists, is to paint portraits of King Juan Juan, finds himself "cursed" by a "keeper." He ends up flushing a talking goldfish down the toilet to seek out the woman who cursed him; I found it very strange in the best of ways.

Just listening to Joe Jackson's Blaze of Glory, and a bridge lyric that was begging to be repeated leapt out at me:

Now who wants to be just a bug that they trample You see what has happened, of course 'Cause instead of using the force of example Now it's just the example of force

I made it to my 20-year high school reunion and back in one piece. I was quite nervous going in, with my little speech clutched in one sweaty hand and Laura's hand in the other, but almost immediately I started running into perfectly delightful people I hadn't thought about for, in some cases, two decades. Even people who intimidated the hell out of me in high school shook my hand and seemed genuinely pleased to be catching up.

Hell, I'll say it. It was fun.

Some people looked exactly as they had in high school. Some people had changed so much as to be virtually unrecognizable without the little yearbook-picture tags we all wore. But almost everyone I saw looked better now than they had in high school. It was a nice thing to see.

Laura disappeared almost right off with my good friend Darin Goff's wife Lani to secure a good table for the banquet. They had never met before, but hit it right off. Together they snagged a perfect location—close to the front, but right next to a door in case any of us needed to slip out. Another good friend, Brett Clay, joined us at the table with his wife Therese, and I was pleased to see we were all drinking. Yes, there was a bar at the banquet—supplemented by the Talisker I had smuggled inside in my Scottish hip flask, and which we not-so-furtively shared around the table. (Well, actually, I elected to hold off until after my speech, seeing no point in overlubricating my tongue.)

I was preceded on the program by another good friend, who spoke at some length about the liberal-media bias in America and the need to promote democracy around the world by preemptive ass-kicking. Oh, wait, I'm sorry, he was speaking on behalf of the Davis High alumni who have served in the military. A few of the folks at our table slipped out that side door during this bit of the program. I couldn't—I didn't know for sure when I would be speaking. His tirade was to have been followed by the screening of a Restless Heart video extolling the virtues of said indiscriminate military ass-kicking, "Torch of Freedom," but fortunately technical difficulties precluded this.

This pro-war pep rally, which seemed to leave a notable tension in the room, was followed by another classmate strumming acoustic guitar and singing "God Bless the U.S.A." Then it was my turn, and while what I really wanted to say by way of opening remarks was, "I'm grateful to all our brave classmates who have served our country in the military, but as a New Yorker who saw the Twin Towers burn with his eyes, all I want is for us to get the motherfuckers who really did it," what I really said can be found here:

A Tribute to the Class of '84

I spoke off-the-cuff at our 5-year reunion, and on that occasion I went on a little too long and encountered a small spot of heckling. Accordingly, and with the help of a few worthy LJers, this time I had brought with me to the lectern a short list of emergency heckling responses, written down in ascending order of severity of need:

• Ah, I love my fans. You guys keep me going. Keep it up.
• I'm sorry, there seems to be some confusion. The alumni cheerleading tryouts are tomorrow, after the golf tournament.
• Don't be fooled. They were trying to talk me into a threesome before dinner.
• I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask your fellow classmates to turn on you and eat you.

After my speech, the Restless Heart video played, technical difficulties having been overcome. I felt free to polish off the Talisker as war pornography played on the screen. I'd never drunk with most of my high school friends before. An unexpected pleasure marred by the images of fighter jets shooting like ejaculate from the decks of aircraft carriers.

We milled about, catching up with more folks, for another forty-five minutes or so after the program was over. Then Laura touched my arm and suggested, in that wise way she has, that we not be the last ones out of the banquet hall. I looked around, and the crowd had indeed thinned noticeably. We began working our way toward the exit, but there were still enough people stopping us to say hello that we didn't make it outside for another hour.

Oh, one important thing not to overlook: There were a lot of hot women there, but my wife was the hottest of all—even if she mildly resented the two old friends of mine who gushed to her about how pretty she was. ("Don't I have a personality? A brain?" Yes, of course, but these were the kids I knew in high school, and they were complimenting me as much as you.)

Me & Darin Goff		Scott Taylor & Darin Goff
Me & Brett Clay & Therese		Me & Brett Clay
Me & Brad Watts		Me & Brad Watts
Me & Jim Larkins		Matt Snell

"Do you also—?"

On second thought, never mind.

"When you go home tonight, don't get high! Don't get high when you go home tonight! When you go home tonight, don't you get high! Read the Bi-i-i-ble instead!"

Um, I'm sorry—are those my only two choices?

I just wanted to congratulate you on an amazing performance. How you always managed to step to the side the moment I tried to get around you—positively telepathic. And let's not forget the sudden stop right at the narrow passage between two other shoppers. I came within a hair's breadth of plowing right into you, which must have been your object all along.

Don't get me wrong—there's a long and proud tradition of Bill's-progress-foilers in this country. I just want to know how you learned the position was vacant and knew to audition. As far as I'm concerned, the job is yours.

Who approved this decision about removing the entire music section from the Borders at Kips Bay without consulting me? What—you think I can take time at lunch to walk all the way over there just to look at books? Please, let's get our chain of command right in the future.

"...It just gets under my skin. I'm not cold. What's wrong with me that I need everyone to like me? I need therapy. Well, you're the only one I can talk to about it. Yes, so he was sending me these mash notes from Spain. Yes. I don't know what's going on with him, no. I don't know what he wants. Yes, so I wrote to tell him this urologist I'm seeing wants me to go away with him for the weekend. Fifty-two—he says. You know what he tells me? They're all latent. Meaning all urologists are latent homosexuals, I suppose. But what about going away with him for the weekend? No, you know what he said to me? We know where that will lead. How does he know where that will lead? No, he wouldn't just come out and say it. Nothing about our plans then. So what am I supposed to do about the weekend? Go with the urologist?"

I have to admit, I was tempted to walk over to her on the way out and say, "Forget 'em both. Spend the weekend with me," just to make it stop.