surfacing from post-Hugos brainwhack. Entertaining to see Harlan Ellison grab Connie Willi's boob (or so it looked to me from the depths of the fifth row.) Not expecting to win anything so I could sit back and enjoy. Awards pretty much round-up-the-usual suspects, but heartfelt congratulations to the winners anyway: John Scalzi was fidgety as a whippet at the pre-Hugos reception. I myself am a bit of a Serenity agnostic so I wasn't feeling the lurve when this won. The Japanese ran an elegant and civilized party in the Presidential suite at the Marriot, --this year's gift a wooden sake cup, to be filled from the big big barrel in the corner --which I did. Paul Cornell took some small consolation from the fact that at least he wasn't beaten by an incendiary infant --and in full tux looked very James Bond, but hooray for Who! Chatted with palatinate on star glamour (whom I hadn't seen all weekend --it's hard to bump into people here: Pyr has wisely monopolised the Hilton bar, lounge lizards that we are) and Tim and Serena Powers on the big balcony on the merry joys of Disneyland. Then, strangely, I found my brain was shutting down and instead of another demented roar around the party corridor, I dropped into bed and was literally asleep before head hit the proverbial.