Inhuman Swill : Page 105
Why is my blog called Inhuman Swill? Because you can unscramble the pieces to make William Shunn.

This has really not been a good week. I blame Work Hell for my temporal dislocation. And for turning me into a complete asshat.

I woke up this morning thinking: "Prince! At Bryant Park! This morning! Yay!"

But then in the shower, I thought: "Wait, Prince is on June 15th. Today is June 16th. I worked until 2 a.m. Wednesday, then slept in through the whole thing Thursday morning. Fuck! Fuck fuck FUCK!"

So I dawdled at home, took the subway to my usual stop, Bryant Fucking Park, and walked to work from there.

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It is, of course, Work Hell this week. I don't know if you're observing it where you work, but we are here.

At any rate, I took a couple of hours this evening to sneak away from the celebration and meet a science fiction friend and colleague and his girlfriend for drinks at a brand-new multilevel sports bar called Tonic East. To think that this is the pinnacle of our technological prowess as a society. But I digress.

We had a lovely time in the roof garden, though the bit where we managed to snag a table was more carport than open-air seating. Coming back here to the office afterward—full of Newcastle Brown Ale, which I will probably have to stop drinking now that they're mounting such an aggressive and ubiquitous ad campaign in our fair city—I strolled uptown on Madison Avenue, only to pass a gaggle young young lasses loitering together in a knot on the sidewalk. Surreptitiously eyeing them and their long (as they are referred to in bad fiction) coltish legs, I thought to myself, "This looks like a chapter meeting of the Future Streetwalkers of America."

Then my eye chanced to fall upon the brass placard affixed to the front of the building before which the delicate things were congregating.

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Tween fiction question

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If anyone out there has any expertise in the subject, what are some of the best recent fiction titles for, say, the 11- to 12-year-old audience?

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Sunday Bushy Sunday

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Everyone and his dog has probably seen this cut-and-paste job of Bushy reciting the lyrics to "Sunday Bloody Sunday," but I hadn't, and it cheered me greatly this morning when [info]nitewanderer sent it to me:

This week is officially Work Hell. I have worked at least fourteen hours and been here until past eleven p.m. each the past three days. And yes, you're counting right—that includes Sunday. It's what happens when an Irresistible Project meets an Immovable Deadline. I can't see straight.

And this morning when I arrived at work, I realized that I had accidentally turned off my home computer—which is also my private music server, and lets me listen to any of my 42,000+ tracks from the comfort of any broadband connection. It's also the only thing that gets me through some of these infernal office days. I have texted the dogwalker, though, and he has agreed to turn the computer on for me when he arrives this afternoon. Whew! I need my fix, man!

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Love in the age of podcasts

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My short story "Observations from the City of Angels" (originally published under a different title in Salon) has been selected for a future episode of the SF podcast Escape Pod. No word yet on which of their fine readers will narrate the story, but we'll know in a few months!

Past episodes of Escape Pod have featured stories by the likes of Paul Di Filippo, Tim Pratt, Greg van Eekhout, Sarah Prineas, Bruce Holland Rogers, and Cory Doctorow. I'm very delighted by this, and I can't wait to hear the result.

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The gist is, fuck yourself

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Laura reined my fuckin' attention around to this screed from those well-favored cocksuckers at Salon. The string of fuckin' words that sets my heart, and the lady's, to dancin' a fuckin' jig goes thus:

That said, and while I'm not normally a partisan in territorial rivalries, I'm no bought-out cocksucker either, one who'll lift her skirt to remain in the good graces of a reckless capitalist as forward-looking as a dog next to a plate of unattended gizzards. Thus I'd be remiss if I didn't strongly encourage the rest of you to cancel HBO as soon as the fine third season of "Deadwood" has concluded, so that those big-city fucks might feel their position weakening.  [full fuckin' article]
A-fuckin'-men, and don't let the cocksuckers tell you otherwise.
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I'm drowning in work—was at the office for more than 12 hours yesterday—but I wanted to surface for a moment to point out this fine 10-minute Nightline Online report on being gay and Mormon:

The couple that are the focus of the story strike me as pretty damn brave. I hope the story has been aired on actual television.

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ShunnCast #17

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Epidode #17 of "ShunnCast" is now available, in which Bill travels many precious kilometers to the town of Medicine Hat, where he learns important lessons in teenage drinking, misogyny, and the correctness of ratting out one's companion.

See also [info]shunncast.

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Mike Hunt is still Aiken

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Elect MIKE HUNT Aiken County Sheriff
Longtime readers may recall the hilarity that ensued when Laura and I visited Aiken, South Carolina during primary season three years ago. It seems that Mike Hunt was seeking the office of sheriff, and as we all know, what Mike Hunt wants, Mike Hunt gets.

Mike Hunt, snatched in the night.

Well, I'm happy to report that Mike Hunt has made the news again! Mike Hunt has been recognized as the best in South Carolina! Not only that, but Mike Hunt will be honored on Hilton Head. How appropriate!

I was quite delighted to see Mike Hunt getting more exposure than usual. Which is odd because at the same time Mike Hunt has greater coverage. Hmm.

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All vets are off

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What I didn't say in the previous post is that today's visit is the last visit Ella will make to that vet. We've been with this vet for over two years, and while we haven't always been happy with the service, we've felt some loyalty. But today was absolutely the last straw.

I was waiting in the exam room while Ella, sedated a bit, was getting her X rays. When the orderly, a Neanderthal bruiser I'll call Frank, brought her back into the exam room, he set her down on the floor. She sort of slumped there in a boneless, trembling puddle, then started bashing her head against the floor.

I immediately got down on the floor and lifted her up to keep her from hurting herself. "I can put her in a crate, like usual," said Frank, "or you can hold her in your lap to keep her from hitting her head."

Now, Frank doesn't seem like he's cruel, just like he's not all there. "I'll hold her," I said.

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