Inhuman Swill : Page 76
Why is my blog called Inhuman Swill? Because you can unscramble the pieces to make William Shunn.

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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What's that you say, Reuters? New York's pedestrians are the eighth fastest in the world? Are you sure?

Pedestrians in Singapore were crowned the world's fastest movers, walking 30 percent faster than they did in the early 1990s... Copenhagen and Madrid were the fastest European cities, beating Paris and London. And despite its reputation as "the city that never sleeps," New York ranked only eighth in the pace race, behind Dublin and Berlin.
We score that high? Because when I go out walking, I am stymied by the slow. Not sure I want to live in Singapore, though. Copenhagen might be nice.
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Short takes

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A big cookie lies pulverized in a tight accretion disc in the bus lane of Madison Avenue. Two black (soot-stained?) pigeons peck away at the unbelievable bonanza. Peck peck hop peck.

Cars are coming. A gray sedan bears down. Fly, pigeons! Get out of the way! Pigeons, why can't you hear my telepathic command! CAR!

Black wheels chew up the meters. With an annoyed flutter the pigoens hop aside at the last possible instant, wings a finger's width from rubber mayhem.

Hop hop peck peck peck.

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The Accidental Terrorist 30th Anniversary Sale

Signed editions
that even a
missionary
could afford.

Order yours now!

William Shunn

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