Inhuman Swill : Page 71
Why is my blog called Inhuman Swill? Because you can unscramble the pieces to make William Shunn.

GalleySlave

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Ron Hogan of MediaBistro's GalleyCat certainly had an eye for the hotties at the Nebula banquet this past Saturday. Amongst the objects of his roving camera eye....


Update:  For those arriving without context, that's my wife on the left, and GalleyCat is perhaps unduly, perhaps ironically fixated on the "hotties of publishing"—of both genders.
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Telescoping the Nebulas

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Laura and Bill
Let me start by saying that I had a fabulous time over the weekend. I lost a Nebula to James Patrick Kelly, but I wasn't unhappy about it. Burn is a terrific novel novella, and it's pretty incredible that after nine at-bats this is Jim's first win.

Anyway, the weekend started for me last Thursday afternoon, and between then and about 2:00 am Sunday Laura and I hung out with Sheila Williams, [info]asphalteden, Bianca Miele, Trevor Quachri, [info]paulmelko, [info]paulwitcover, [info]bobhowe, [info]eleanor, Jim Minz, Paolo Bacigalupi, Jack Skillingstead, Scott Edelman, Toby and Emily Buckell, Steve Feldberg, Jim Kelly, John Kessel, Craig Engler, Jae Brim, [info]rajankhanna, Barbara Krasnoff, Jim Freund, Chris Cohen, Marc Zicree, Brook and Julia West, Rick Bowes, Jeff Ford, Wil McCarthy, Daryl Gregory, Shawna McCarthy, Wayne Barlowe, Gordon Van Gelder, John Joseph Adams, [info]slushmaster, and probably a couple dozen other people who are slipping my mind just now. I also appeared live on Jim Freund's radio program on two hours of sleep, had a lovely breakfast with Jack and Maureen McDevitt, and helped direct Norman Spinrad to the nearest subway station.

Hour of the Wolf 12 May 2007, full audio 
5:00-6:10 amMP3 file31.3 Mb
6:10-7:00 amMP3 file21.9 Mb
A dinner out that Laura and I organized for a relatively modest-sized group of folks turned out well, and just as we in our nefarious scheming had hoped accumulated many more participants as we strolled across lower Manhattan from the book signing to the restaurant. Like iron filings to a magnet! Mwa ha ha ha ha ha! Good thing Laura had the foresight to make a larger reservation than we believed we would need.

The banquet and awards ceremony itself were interminable. Thank God the novella category came early in the program or it would have been even worse. Even so, the nervousness didn't start settling in until during dessert. Or maybe the delicious cheesecake concealed a botulism virus, I don't know. Laura and I were fortunate enough to sit at the Asimov's table with Sheila Williams and my fellow nominee Paul Melko, who cut quite a handsome figure in his spiffy tuxedo. (Brian Bieniowski and I looked good, but we were still hopelessly outclassed.) As I said above, Paul and I lost to Jim Kelly, but we're saving those acceptance speeches because we'll face off again in Yokohama. Better sharpen that katana, Melko! Dou itashimashite!

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ScientiFicShunn feed

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[info]
The syndicated RSS feed for ScientiFicShunn, my relatively new only-fiction-no-chat podcast, is now available on LJ. See scientificshunn.

The podcast is also accessible via the iTunes Music Store, if you have iTunes installed on your computer.

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ShunnCast #46

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Epidode #46 of "ShunnCast" is now available, in which Bill reads his first published professional short story, "From Our Point of View We Had Moved to the Left," on WBAI 99.5 FM's "Hour of the Wolf."

http://www.shunn.net/podcast?id=46

See also [info]shunncast.

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So Laura and I spent last weekend in Chicago. Saturday was a long, long day of looking at apartments, some of which were very tempting and which we had to reluctantly conclude were not right for us. The most tempting of them all was a giant four-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a graystone on a large lot-and-a-half. It was a steal for the price, but still about $300 over our budget.

After dinner with the in-laws who had generously and heroically driven us around the city all day, Laura and I headed north to arrive in time for dessert with at Ysabeau Wilce's fabulous and humongoid apartment, where we also crossed paths with Paul Witcover of [info]theinferior4 fame. No dueling blogs ensued, but Guitar Hero II was played. We shout, shout, shout at the devil!

We were nervous about our prospects upon restarting the hunt Sunday morning. If we didn't find something that day, Laura would have to make a solo hunting trip back alone. Fortunately, the second place we saw Sunday morning was perfect. First floor of a greystone in Humboldt Park, good neighbors in the building, El stops convenient, nice communal yard for the dog, friendly landlord, only $100 over our budget, and best of all two blocks away from TASTEE FREEZ! Oh, dear. I have shed 17 pounds in the past two months through brute willpower, but now I fear their return is incipient.

But we have a place to live! Now the only thing to worry about is the moving itself.

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Easy as PatsyPie!

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PatsyPie
Suffer from celiac disease? Know someone who does? Do you, they, or it have difficulty finding gluten-free treats to satisfy your, their, or its cravings?

Never fear. PatsyPie is here! Delicious cookies, biscotti, and brownies, without all the icky stuff that's bad for you, them, or it.

PatsyPie! Ask for it by name!


NOTE:  Michael Libling did not strongarm me into posting this notice.
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Shout out to my peeps

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Hey, lunch crew. This one's for you. Good to see you all.

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You're a real gone guy

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He's highstepping up the subway stairs ahead of me—tall, soda-straw thin, hair cut Ivy League style and slicked back on top, long sideburns curving to points near the corners of his mouth—back rigid, knees rising and falling in a bizarrely quick clockwork rhythm. Tight black denim jacket, pegleg jeans with the cuffs rolled up, black sock, Converse hightops.

As he pulls away up the ramp at the top of stairs, twisting the throttle, I think to myself, Now that must be the Stray Cat Strut.

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Philadelphia Inquirer books editor Frank Wilson uses Cormac McCarthy as an excuse to peddle the rankest of bullshit in his column of yesterday:

Of course, as D.H. Lawrence pointed out in the last book he wrote, Apocalypse, those who warn of apocalypse secretly crave it, the way puritans tend to be turned on by the very vices they so loudly denounce.

The Road is just the latest installment in the pornography of despair.  [full diatribe]

That saw Wilson trots out about those who warn of apocalpypse is one that gets appropriated and applied out of context time and again in a ploy to shame us into thinking that everything will be all right if we just carry on in the style to which we have become accustomed. Lawrence's book was at least in part a diatribe against Christianity, a religion whose anticipated Apocalypse is a rather different animal from environmental disaster. Believers in Apocalypse believe that Apocalypse is inevitable, and they look forward to the happy horseshit of the Millennium that will follow. Believers in environmental catastrophe, or in nuclear winter, or in a host of other terrors of the modern age, don't believe the end is necessarily inevitable. If they did, why would they be trying to raise enough awareness to avert it?

Furthermore, in the balance of his column, Frank Wilson pretty much shames books editors everywhere by displaying his tin ear for brilliant, poetic prose, his utter lack of sophistication as a reader, and his blindness to symbolic content as he drops road apples all over The Road. Of course, if he denudes the book of its value as art, all that can remain in his cramped little mind is a perception of pornography. It's all in the eye of the beholder, after all. To me, pornography is American soldiers and Iraqi citizens dying unnecessarily while Washington watches, skies and seas poisoned as we blithely career down dead-end roads in our dead-end SUVs. Pornography is not contained, nor would be it even be containable, within the borders of The Road.

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