First Off

If I go for a walk will you all be here when I get back?

Could I be the person behind you on the bus? Could I be the guy you see on TV every day? Could I be that one person you would never expect? Could I be the man you're looking for? (This is not the man you are looking for.) . Could I be the secret cause of your epilepsy? Could I be the hypnotist who makes you cluck every time you see or hear the word 'discombobulated'? (Clucking yet?) Could I be the guy who's always asking pointless questions? Could I be brainstorming in order to come up with something to write? (Quite possibly.) Could I possibly be the one who makes you think for half a second and do something? (I can only hope...) Could I be rich? Could I be handsome? Could I be famous? Could I be a giant? (They might be giants...) Could I be your mother? (No.) Could I be a Buddha? (Nope again.) Could I be the second coming? (I don't think so. I could be wrong.) Could there be anyone reading this? Could I be any more self-deprecating? Could I be facetious? (Just maybe.) Could I keep going like this for hours without saying anything relevant? (Maybe.) Could I be doing something better with my time? (Quite possibly.) Is this productive in the least? (Not sure.) Am I going to stop any time soon? (Yes)

a story Stream of consciousness writing was Jacob's strong suit. He could whip out a few pages of gibberish that imparted not a goddamn thing to the reader in record time and sell it off to a literary magazine for a few hundred bucks, no problem.
Jacob had no problem pretending that his one-off exercises in free form bullshit were actually art. His art, actually, was being an artist. Being an artist required very little hard work, and was something that came to him naturally. Naturally, he took advantage of being a fabulous bullshit artist by making what he considered absolute shit and passing it off as gold. His gold often won him awards, and at the very least paid his bills and kept up his booze and nicotine supply. Nicotine and booze gathering was, of course, something he left to his handlers. His handlers had no end of a hard time acquiring his precious Jameson whiskey and Gitane cigarettes, tastes he had manufactured to keep up the persona of artist. His artist's persona was crafted meticulously from his observations of what people wanted to see in him. What he wanted to see in himself, of course, was left by the wayside. Jacob couldn't stomach most of the bullshit he did on a daily basis just to stay the darling of his crowd. But he was very good at pretending that he loved it. Even his egomania was a front, put up because he saw that that was what people wanted. If he were humble, then no one would pay attention to him. So he lived, day in day out, as the artist Jacob.
Selah
--Ian

posted by Ian Quinn  : 8/18/2001 07:50:00 AM 0 comments

If I would write more, I would probably be fucking brilliant.

Anyway, I go to take out the trash at 8 am, and it's perfect weather out. As perfect as weather gets in Central Texas in the middle of August, anway. So I was thinking I would go for a run, get some exercise while nature was being nice. Then I realized that in less than a half hour, the heat index would be breaking 100 yet again, and it would be unbearable. So no exercise outdoors for me today. Damn rational mind.

I don't know what's worse. The fact that when I make a witty one liner people are so surprised that they laugh harder than the joke was worth, or that they're surprised that I'm making a witty one-liner. I think it's the latter. Damn friends.

If I had any ambition at all, I'd at least force myself to write a page a day, in order to more finely hone my m4d l33t \/\/ri+i|\|6 5killz, y0. (apologies to those of you that don't know l33t. Yeah, right, like anyone is reading this. Ya know, once someone told me they had seen my site, then I figured out they were wrong, and had been looking at a pr0n site the whole time and thinking I was a sick bastard. Okay, so they were right about one thing. But I still forced them to eat the mass of what had been chinese food at one point in the precambrian period, maybe. With a spork. See, they were right about one thing...) Hahaha. That entire parenthetical rant was totally false. I just thought it was funny. But some people have to have these things pointed out to them. No one's ever looked at my site.

I'm feeling oddly prolific at the moment. If only I could do this more often.

a story
So, one day in space, the crew of a small shuttle was in a crisis. They couldn't agree on toppings for a pizza. Old battles die hard. So, this crew decides that they're going to just get a Supreme, damn it all to hell. Then they realized they were Buddhists. Except for Frank. Frank was supposedly practicing some alien religion from the Cygnus system that noone had even heard of yet. Leave it to Frank to jump on the newest bandwagon. (Or make up some bogus alien religion in order to have the two days for inspection off for religious holiday.)
Frank admitted that there were no dietary restrictions in his new religion, except for something about X'c'vegleir'an beetles, but even then only on Sundays. So they decided on the tofu pepperoni.
The pizza was very good indeed. Noone had an unkind word to say about it. Except Stacy, of course. But then, Stacy would have spit in her own face on the basis that she was imperfect. (Or rather, had, in fact, spit in her own face on at least one occasion. Thank goodness for zero Gee.) She thought the tomato sauce was too lumpy, too sweet, and too bland, besides being an affront to vegetable sauces everywhere. She also thought the tofu pepperoni tasted more like... well, in her words, ass. She thought a lot, none of it good.
Eric didn't give a fuck about alien religions or Stacy. He thought the pizza would have been better with some real Martian grown mushrooms and onions, but otherwise was completely servicable. (Or even better than servicable. Fantistic. Grandiose. Yeah, a grandiose pizza... That has a ring too it... Now, what the hell does grandiose mean exactly, thought Frank.) He also thought that if he had to put up with one more day of cataloguing space dust from some star that exploded a few hundred years ago, he was definately going to have a word with his supervisors about reassignment. In his fantasies this occured with him holding a shiny chrome laser gun. Which was silly, because laser pistols hadn't even been invented yet.
Tomoyo wasn't sure how she felt about the pizza. She wasn't really hungry to begin with, and now she wasn't hungry at all. End of story. (Or not. In a bout of what has to be cosmic Karma, Tomoyo would go on to be consumed by something that looked very much like the pizza she had just eaten, after being promoted twice and sent on an expeditionary mission to the M'az'zio system.)
The ship's cat was very happy indeed, after being fed off the crusts of pizza that Tomoyo wouldn't eat. It sauntered off into the airduct that it had been calling home, and would for as long as he was being fed. (Or he would get blasted into component particles by Eric's laser pistol after falling from a loose vent and landing on Eric's head. Or not. Fate and continuity are capricious and fickle when it comes to cats.) He was a happy cat.
Selah
--Ian

posted by Ian Quinn  : 8/16/2001 08:38:00 AM 0 comments

Happy birthday to me. I got to go see Kevin Smith premiere "Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back." Absolutely groovy. Now, someone tell me what the crap this is.

--Ian

posted by Ian Quinn  : 8/14/2001 06:11:00 AM 0 comments