Inhuman Swill | Blog | William Shunn
Inhuman Swill : Page 119
Why is my blog called Inhuman Swill? Because you can unscramble the pieces to make William Shunn.

Look and feel

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Ella is back from the hospital! Actually, she came home last night. She's none the worse for the wear except for being on several prescriptions and having had a cuff shaved around one of her back ankles. For such a fluffy-looking dog, she sure has a leg like a chicken bone!

In other news, there's been a very slight tweak to the look of Shunn.net. Nothing major!

(CSS rocks.)

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Our friend [info]ellapup is spending the night in the hospital for monitoring and fluids as she recuperates from a particularly nasty bout of gastroenteritis and its attendant dehydration. Please, no flowers. She would only eat or more likely shred them. Squeaky toys always put a wag in the ol' tail, though.

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Who moved my tepee?

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People, always remember to check the paper situation before committing to a stall. I'm only sayin'.

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Beards in action

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Glowing eyes
Oh, you know what I mean. I hope.

Even though in this photo I'm only sitting around reading a manuscript for this week's workshop (hi, [info]gtrout!), the beard is there patiently growing and doing its work.

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Bearding the lines

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I am, by the way, writing a novel. I have 82 pages plus an outline but that needs to swell to at least 200 by March 15, when that much is due to the invitational novel workshop I'll be attending in May. Which of course is why I'm putzing around on LJ.

Anyway, I'm growing a beard and not shaving it off until the first draft is complete. Don't worry! That doesn't mean I won't keep it trimmed! ZZ Top look cool, but I won't be ready for a beard like that until I'm in my sixties.

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Onomatokœia

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The word awkward is rather awkward to type.

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Frey in hell

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Yes, we all seem to be more up in arms today about James Frey and his partially made-up memoir than we are about domestic wiretaps, freedom of information in China, and terrorists taking power in Palestine. And it makes sense to me why.

Countless hordes of people feel like they were lied to by James Frey. The reason this is more upsetting than being lied to by the President and his cronies—which happens and continues to happen on a regular basis—is that we're used to being lied to by politicians. We may be appalled by it, but we take this as expected behavior.

Writers, however, are a breed apart. Yes, their main job is to entertain us, but when they're doing their job well they are saying something true to us about what it means to be human, something that resonates in us, the readers, to our very cores. Thousands upon thousands of people felt that James Frey had told them something very resonant and true about their own lives, only now it's come out that what he said was, in many ways, made up. Of course people are upset. Of course they feel betrayed. On some level it must feel like finding out your spouse has been leading a double life.

I feel betrayed as well, but not because I read and believed A Million Little Pieces. I have not read the book. I feel betrayed as a writer on behalf of my profession. James Frey's responsibility as a writer was to tell the truth, and he failed to live up to that responsibility.

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For your wife’s last b-day you gave her a vibrator because of your hopeless Erectile Dysfunction.

Oh, shit, how did they know that???

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January's CD mix of the month

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Mad Bomber Hat
So Laura and I were walking across town on 9th Street on a recent frosty evening—Tuesday just past, to be precise—our arms laden with new purchases and our minds casting ahead to the pleasures of an evening at the Kettle of Fish on Christopher Street in the company of our CD Mix of the Month club cohort, when we spied a spasm of utter disgust and contempt twist the features of a squat, portly pedestrian approaching and about to pass us on our right.

For a moment I wondered what horrific sight or gut-churning smell it might be that had made such unholy handiwork of this Andy Richter–looking fellow's fat face, but all became clear when the porcine perambulator spat these words with a venom that would not have disgraced a slithering specimen of Naja nigricollis nigricincta"What is that on your head?"

Ah. Owing to the evening's chill, I proudly sported my infamous Mad Bomber Hat1, tugged snugly down around my ears. Lined with genuine and luxuriant lapin fur, this toasty headgear never fails to elicit hearty compliments from more discerning critics (as, in fact, it did not much later that evening). Never before, however, had an imprecation of such vehemence been hurled at my innocent chapeau.

Needless to say, such churlishness could not be allowed to pass unchecked. Shrugging off my shock, I turned as the surly stranger passed and sent this salvo sailing over my shoulder:

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