Lying is an art and art is a lie: adventures in bastard stoicism
I told Gail Armstrong's story and got rolling on the floor laughter. But explaining where I got, how I know this person, what a blog is, was really distracting.
Sometimes Occam's razor dictates you just steal the story. That's the difference between Dan Hugger's stories and Dan Hugger's stories when I take them. Sorry about Nietzsche’s mustache, man.
So yesterday this girl comes in wearing a Ramone's shirt except it's hot pink. And I think, "cool" followed by "huh." And then she just treated me like a machine she could feed money and it would dispense gasoline, which was pretty much the kind of day I'd been having, so I thought about what it would be like to run out after her and yell at her. But I dunno what I would have said, I couldn't think past "you're not a punk!" and even that didn't sound right. And I don't know what she should have said either. Which is why I didn't just pretend to have run out and yelled at her.
It's not honesty, it's writer's block.
Once Prizio said I was so obsessed with stories he wanted me to be the Boswell to his Johnson. I don't know where he was going with that, but I'm pretty sure I'd be a terrible biographer, more like Dylan making up wild stories about his youth spent everywhere but where he spent it. But then, I kind of think maybe Prizio was saying he couldn't rewrite himself but maybe I could.