that noise you hear in the background is my brain squeaking
So I started writing this piece about our expedition yesterday for me to read at the KGB Bar in Manhattan: the reading was by four authors with stories in the
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There are depths.
Pam is currently slumbering. We'd assumed she'd missed out on the super-extra-nasty flu that hit me last Thursday/Friday (how come you rarely got hit by these bugs in the past, Paul? because I was a slave to Socialized Medicine, I confess it, wot a total bumhead I am), but we seem to have been wrong.
My description of the KGB wonderama was destroyed by LJ's software because I couldn't recall offhand Elizabeth Bear's LJ name. I went away to look, and by the time I got back there was a blank page.
So: My co-readers were Nathan Ballingrud (
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Whatever, forget my egocentric crap: go over to
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UPDATE: Ellen Datlow has put pix at http://tinyurl.com/29w9ta.
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Not quite. As we were leaving I pointed to the shelves by the door and like an idiot said, "Look cough spit hack they have a cough spit hack clearance sale on cough spit hack and the stuff's only cough spit hack a dollar a yard. At that price you could cough spit hack use it for cough spit hack toilet paper."
To my alarm I was taken at my word.
I'm now hoping I haven't lined myself up for an embarrassing few minutes explaining to a proctologist where the paisley pattern came from.
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I've never heard it called that before.
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"The black and white one of you and Pam is terrific."
That's because Pam's in the picture.
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