Sketch o' the Day ~ Discovery

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Haven't done a live sketch for a while, and I'm actually takin' a lunch today. For those who're new or happen to catch this in progress, the image above is updated every 5-10 minutes or so as I'm drawing it.

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I found one of my old report cards from elementary school. It said "Has a tendency to frequently daydream." Who me?

Peace,
Simon

Secret Simon Podcast #005

It was either this or fishball soup.

A letter from "Secret" and Michael from Washington DC have submitted more offerings to the PO Box.

SecretSimon005.mp3
RUN TIME - 12:13
SIZE - 2.8 MB
LINKS - Articulatory Loop

Peace,
Simon

Secret Simon Podcast #004

Letters!

David from Colorado and Dean from Orlando have temporarily appeased the wrath of the PO Box.

SecretSimon004.mp3
RUN TIME - 12:23
SIZE - 5.9 MB
LINKS - Blueberry Pie blog

Peace,
Simon

Secret Simon Podcast #003

On any given Tuesday. Smells like monkeys.

SecretSimon003.mp3
LENGTH: 12:17

Peace,
Simon

Secret Simon Podcast #002

The random ramblings of an out-of-tune piano man. Get in the feedback loop.

SecretSimon002.mp3
LENGTH - 12:49

Peace,
Simon

Secret Simon Podcast #001

Greetings.

I was feeling uppity so I went and did this thing. Take appropriate precautions and listen up. I'll make it all pretty looking later.

SecretSimon001.mp3
RUN TIME: 9:35

You'll notice to the right there is now a new mode of communication as well. We must feed the PO Box to appease it's wrath. ---->

Peace,
Simon

50k and a Yo-Yo

With the help of some very interested person/people who kept visiting today, I've now got over 50,000 hits to this little blog. How'd that happen?

The interesting twist is their ip address is in the very part of the city I live in. Not everyone I know is aware of this place. Actually, only an understanding few that I know in real life would appreciate the value in what is shared here. I briefly got that slight tingly feeling of being "caught", although there's nothing to be caught about...except that I have a sexual appetite like everybody else.

That might freak someone out. But they should get over it. So maybe I'll talk more frankly about things like that, I'm not gettin' any at the moment though that's for damn sure.

Bring it, I say. Come out, come out all you who lurk. To go from extreme drama countered by mind numbing routine is all part of the gig. Somebody ask me a difficult question, I'm overdue for another ride.

Meanwhile, I'm starting to go a bit loopy. My computers are starting to talk back to me so I must press onward...

Peace,
Simon

Just Sick

Greetings. It's late.

Of the last 48 hours I've been at work for 36 of them and slept about 3. I'm starting to smell bad and I need a shower. It's hard to breathe. I've got projectile mucus of varying shades. I'm eating Taco Bell right now because I feel like crap already so what the hell. One of my sons is a liar and the other is a vandal. I'm behind on my deadlines. I realize that I talk to myself quite a lot nowadays. And my poop is blue. Blue I tell you.

But really I'm fine. How are you?

Peace,
Simon

The Ongline World

As you may have noticed, I've caught the podcast bug lately.

Last Thursday on a whim, I noticed the Ongline Podcast was accepting call-ins via Gizmo, so I gave it a try just out of curiosity.

It was a wonderful conversation with congenial host John Ong and fellow listener Tigger from California. We banter on about coming out and religon and podcasting in general.

In other news, we're going to hear the Elder Monkey sing in his first school concert tonight. I can't believe that it's already time for those kinds of things to happen. I'm sure that the majority of parental units don't equate Kindergarteners warbling en masse with one of the levels of purgatory so I probably won't inflict it upon you.

Or perhaps, considering the uncontrollable ways of monkeys (thanks for that Evan), I just might.

Peace,
Simon

Little Voices

I was just mucking around this evening on the computer because I actually had a little time to muck for once. I'm so glad I save everything. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to bring you this little number recorded earlier this year:

Monkey with Mic

Peace,
Simon

The Secret Simon World Tour

Let's move on to something less brain hemorrhaging, shall we? Because I only have one and I'd like to get as much use out of it before the expiration date.

Someday, I'll get to see other places. But in the mean time I'm content to just hear about it from all you wonderful people.

If you've been paying attention the one thing you do know about me is that I'm in Florida. Before That Guy moved on up to Atlanta (after hearing it whisper sweet nothings in his ear), we were chatting one evening and he noticed that I had put my home state as SL. Where in the world is SL?

Well, Simonland, of course.

So, even if you never comment, validate your existence by sending a teeny tiny shoutout on the new nifty-neato map thing called Frappr!

I heard about this on the My Gay Life podcast so go pay him some love also. Is it just me or are there a lot of gay podcasters in Chicago?

Peace,
Simon

An Imperfect Number

I sat in my car this morning trying to warm up after several attempts of fighting fierce winds and icy rain at 6AM pushing sandbags out of the way to get into the back door that would not open. I tried my key over and over again and the door would not open. For ten minutes this went on. My shoes and shirt were soaked through. And finally the door gave way to the deserted warehouse of the early morning. Half of the employees didn't show up until after lunchtime because of the storm. And I discovered that I could have used my key in the new front door after all.

Tonight is the first cold night we've had this season. I need a blanket.

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Seven years ago this month, I started working working at this place of employment. Not gainfully, and there certainly aren't ladders to be climbed, but I'm still employed nonetheless. Seven years ago, I moved into this house I call home. In the distance from here to there during those seven years, I just hit over 100,000 miles on my car. Seven is such an odd number to leave things at. Some cultures hold it as a perfect number, although to me it seems rather an imperfect.

Seven years ago today, I remember sitting on a balcony overlooking the beach at dusk feeling a coolness of the same sort. The hotel was a surprise for her. We really had no money for a honeymoon but I pulled some strings. There was another wedding happening on the beach outside our room. When I came to find her she was standing by the door she was ready to go in. I believe I fumbled with the lock to that door as well. We both caught colds after crashing from the stress of finally getting married that night. But we were happy to be together.

Later in the evening, not being wise in the ways of expensive hotels that had such amenities we had forgotten to put up the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. When we heard the door suddenly open and a voice in a droll and unflinching tone, that had obviously seen all this before, asked if we'd like turn down service. I was guessing that's for the bed. And so we sat there naked in the bed, giving her an awkward "No thanks," and couldn't help but burst in laughter after the visitor had made her equally abrupt exit.

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Seven years later, tonight, we sit and hold hands for a while. I know she is thinking about it. The monkeys are asleep. The Elder Monkey coughs, a reminder of his current illness. The TV is showing sitcoms and dramas but it all just turns into noise after a while. That familiar question arises, what are you thinking, what am I thinking? We remember the date. We conclude there is no anger, only tired minds. It's late and time for me to go home.

To she, I hope to be her confidante and a comfortable fellow human being until we are ripe and mewling in old age. To she, who is mama to my monkeys, I will do my best to not let them too close to the sun. To she, who I burdened with my name, I will always ask for forgiveness.

As I sit here trying desperately to see through a salty blur in my eyes, with a slight fever and only a few thoughts that are worth anything...I hear the cough. I speak nothing. I'm hungry. I eat chocolate and drink tea and I'm sure it makes my head hurts. Wet socks make my feet itch. I have a lot of work to do that I won't get to. My tummy hurts. I miss people. I take a deep breath.

These are not complaints by the way. Merely observations. I can do nothing more at this point. Although I'm done with slippery doorknobs and will use the front door from now on.

Why we do the things we do will forever be my riddle, sonnet, humor and curse mashed together in a perplexing and unbreakable thread. Ask me again in another seven years.

Peace,
A.

PS. Now that I have read this again after some sleep it occured to me that I must give off an impression that I'm backtracking or not dealing with all that has happened very well, which couldn't be farther from the truth. I am in fact moving on, I just want to be sure the relationships I have change in a good way. There are times that I do feel guilty though and sometimes reflections can get muddled...so my apologies.

A New Week At Work! Thundercats, Ho!

I've just gone to the little boys room to discover I have Oliver-Twist-Meets-Mad-Scientist hair. Normally I wouldn't notice, but being that I've been up for some hours already and figuring that even without the aid of any product, bed-head usually would have subsided by now and that nobody really even blinked... I am reminded that anywhere else coworkers might awkwardly glance at random five inch spikes and indicate some kind of reservation to the unprofessional. Or wonder what I was doing with a ruler in the bathroom. (Well I had to know how high we were talking here...)

To give you an idea of the general mindset of the people I work with, this was sent around from the boss first thing this morning. It's highly probable, however, that it's not safe for your workplace...: Puberty Explained

Here's hoping your week has at least one hair-raising yet life affirming moment. Hair not required.

Peace,
Simon

Somewhere Inbetween

You know, my biggest obstacle in writing is that sometimes the precedent I set is overly drenched with emotion and insight that the words are too sincere for my own good. Write, delete, write, delete, write, delete, delete. Eventually even the best ingredients will go bland when overcooked. Most of the time what you get to read is something that takes me less than half an hour to write. It's one of those principles that you don't learn about in art school, but figure out on your own later, that usually your first thought is the best thought. It's something I can do much easier with the sketches but not so easy for me with the arrangement of words.

And so, I haven't had many interesting first thoughts lately, nor the time to sort out what needs to go in the pot. So until I can settle down and figure out my mind about everything thats been goin' down lately, here are a few banal bits that have kept me distracted enough to know that I at least haven't lost my peripheral vision. :

* Podcasts I was never interested in talk radio...on the radio. It must be because it's on the radio. I can't stop listening to podcasts. People give me a blank stare when I try to talk about what they are. Radio for control freaks? Blathering souls with sound equipment? Really it's nothing more than an audio file with a fancy name. However, like anything else on this addictive thing dubbed the internet, go discover them at your own risk. Podcast Alley is a good place to explore. (And since I have a feeling I have a lot of gay readers out there, you can check out qPodder.)

* Funny Linky - Here's a quickie for you. The Pretty Boys Club. Literally, it'll probably only take you less than a minute to ogle at the banter and fine male specimens, but my, what an enjoyable minute it is. And if you haven't ever noticed, I like to list new blogs that catch my eye at the top of the list in the sidebar over there ----->

* check dis scally lad owt - Speaking of British boys, this isn't one that I read, but for a while I was getting hits from Gay Scally Lad, an explicit and linguistically challenging escapade of extremely horny Brit boys. This isn't the first time a gay sex site has linked me and while it is sorta flattering in a weird way, I often wonder...WHY exactly? Wouldn't any random bloke looking to get their jollies off more than likely be confused to land in my rather tame corner after, for example, just reading about"...this str8 scally woz alwayz gettin his kit off an now u can see all his fit body, an he's got a massiv cock!" It's just all that indelible sexual repression that's subconsciously oozing out of my writing. That's the ticket. UPDATE: Upon further inspection they've recently come to their senses and removed me from their links. I can't help but chuckle a bit.

* I've been periodically gathering up all the various scraps of art that are longing to be rescued from folders deep in the heart of my hard drive. Hopefully with bigger things in mind. Here actually is a sketch that will never see print again, a victim of the Great iMac Crash of 2004. Damned to be lo-resolution for eternity, it may as well enjoy a home here.



* OK so I lied, I remember now that "first thought, best thought" is indeed something I learned in art school. From a talk that Alan Ginsberg gave. Go figure. Don't worry there's more sketches and real life drama on the way.

Peace,
Simon

Sketch o' the Day ~ Conjurer

If you'll excuse me I seem to be expactorating mass amounts of color at the moment. I'll have to check and see if someone set the dial to 11.

Peace,
Simon

Sketch o' the Day ~ Luminescient

No time for words these days. So we sketch.

Update: for your convenience (actually more for my convenience) you can see all past sketches grouped nice and tidy in the bar to your right. Wasn't that nice of me? ---->

Peace,
Simon

Moving Right Along

There's been a lot of moving lately.

Some have recently moved (Twenty-Sum, Hot Toddy), some far distances (Wayward Puppy, Josh & Josh), some in the process of moving (ThatGuy, Traveling Spotlight) and some will more than likely be moving soon (Faustus, Blueberry Pie). Then there are those that are always on the move (Matt) and those who have the longing to relocate (Sardonic Bomb).

To all of you I express my sincere sympathy as the process of moving can very well suck big donkey balls. (That's the nicest thing I could think to say about that.)

I myself will be staying put, barring natural disasters or human acts of stupidity, somewhere along the lines of "a long ass time". Also because I don't want to have to think about moving things like a piano. Oh, and also because I'll be paying on this house for said "long ass time".

Katrina, of course, has put me in purge mode, getting rid of unnecessary crap to make things a bit more...portable. I haven't ever had to evacuate since we are on the highest ground around here, but I don't see the raging storms calming down anytime soon. We've been very lucky but I don't put much stock in that.

I think you dear readers may be a little confused as to my living situation. I seem to have to explain it a lot to those I talk to. As for me, I never moved, I still live in the same house. C and the boys moved out months ago, but merely down a couple blocks and across the street, to reside with Grandma & Grandpa. Hence I see them just about every day.

It was up in the air for a very long time, should I move closer to work, should I get a job closer to the boys, will I be able to eat after paying rent, child support & too much debt, should I just live in my car, etc. So, I got a hefty home loan to take care of the mortgage and most of our accumulated debt, put it in my name. I'm glad to do it. It means we are back at more of a clean slate financially, schools and jobs are in place, and we seem to be in a stable routine again. All of which are good things.

But you know, I don't really want to move. Even when I had a reason to, I didn't want to. I'd like to visit some new places of course, so I don't become such a cracker that I just snap in two from being stale. For the most part I think I have it alright down here.

Regardless, my place of employment is still a good 45 minutes away. It's a conundrum. I'll do what I have to, of course, but I despise using all that gas. Not because of the current prices, either. It's always been a play on my conscience since I've owned a car that I should just learn to ride a bike and stop supporting that whole massive aspect of consumerism. I could ride the bus but that would take many hours a day. Sometimes practicality has to rule over efficiency.

Work is moving, which is why I bring all this up. Only down the road from where they are now, so no change in drive for me really. This weekend in fact. And we aren't just talking about a few offices, we have a whole warehouse full of stuff. We are a small company but not that small. Being on salary has it's downfalls of course. This is the second time we've moved our base of operations so by the third time we'll be pros and should just start a moving company.

Monkey News:

C got a beta fish yesterday. Upon questioning of resident monkeys, Elder Monkey decided on Oscar (I'm sure this couldn't have ANYTHING to do with what I affectionately dub "That Other Fish Movie") and Younger Monkey declared that it's name be Christmas (Younger Monkey). Thus, Oscar Christmas, or as I shall be calling it, the OC, has found a new home. May it live a long fishy life. C also had to do some mysterious research last night. This may be leading towards their adoption of a four legged creature, but I'll report on that if it happens. It appears Grandma is now on board but convincing Grandpa is another matter.

These are the things that wake me up on a Sunday morning.

UPDATE: And now there is lice. Ye gods.

Peace,
Simon

Kindergarten 101

Monkey, the Elder, doesn't tell us much about school. It's the curse of trying to be an involved parent I suppose. We know that he gets on a bus that takes him somewhere and that he brings home a notebook that the teacher signs everyday to give his progress. All it has in it, everyday without fail, is a smiley face. Upon inquiry, he doesn't seem to have any knowledge of what occurred in the preceding hours.

By all accounts he could be testing top secret devices in a classified underground lair. Which, you know, if that's the case, I understand, mums the word. He did reveal to us the other day that only kids can be spies. Grown ups are too old to be spies. It would explain why he's so completely dirty when I pick him up sometimes, and not to give in under interrogation...

Last night was his Kindergarten open house. Although he'd never admit to it apparently he does indeed attend class everyday and interacts with a whole bevy of other monkeys and enjoys it.

His teacher, Mrs. M, is a very kind lady with a droll tone of voice, who can't come in for 7AM conferences and resembles Karen Carpenter if she consumed food. The room was adorned with all the trappings for a full day of books and toys and crayons. Dear lord, that's a lot of tadpoles. So, generally, it's much like my office at work, except we have dogs instead of tadpoles and they have their own bathroom.

Somewhere in there, the new principal, the assistant principal (I think) and the PTA recruiter all made appearances. They all fit elementary school stereotypes to a fault, all being jovial and with over-annunciated flare. "We love your children! Please love me, too! Join the PTA!"

One thing that has never changed, there is something awry with all school administrators hair. Pretty much always. The assistant principal had seemed to have an entire water park mountain slide on the left side of her head. And some of the office employees have some interesting do's as well. It must be a dress code thing.

Was all that too mean? I'm just tellin' it like it is...I'm just a hippie in need of a haircut.

What else. He can write his name, yay! He has a few problems with the lower case "a", it looks more like a "q" and hence his name turns into something given by the Jedi Council. Numbers, shapes, and all that stuff are a cinch. He knows around 30 letters of the alphabet. Words are starting to emerge. Day begins at 7:45, lunch at 10:10 in the morning, which is a bit insane, but then they get out at 1:45. He gets Music on Wednesdays and Art on Fridays, and PE the other three days.

Nap time is turning into Daydream time. Enjoy that while you can little mister.

When they do some assessment testing very soon, he'll need to be able to relay the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears from memory. While that is a good thing, as there was a time when he wouldn't go to sleep without that particular tale being told, I'm worried he might have picked up some of the creative liberties that C and I may have inadvertently introduced to make it more interesting. They probably aren't looking to find Goldilocks ending up as a conglomerate CEO and the target of contract hits from the three ninja Kodiaks. Or something. It was a while ago, give me some slack.

I don't remember anything of consequence before the third grade so I often wonder how much of this he'll retain. All the better to keep it documented and filed away for future embarrassm--, um, reference.

Peace,
Simon

Here Dwells the Vampire Manatees

It's good to have inside jokes. For me and my wife C, those inane pieces of information that know one else gets are in steady supply. I could tell you all about how we came up with the concept of the crazed vampire manatees, in their speedboats seeking vengeance, but I think that's best left to wandering minds.

Actually, I couldn't tell you. But somewhere in there was something about chocolate super spy laxatives. Inside jokes are all about being happenstance and not so much the end result, anyways.

Our relationship is the weirdest thing I've ever personally heard or read about. I'm talking about when I write it all down and read it again later. When I go back and see the ways that we interact and interact now. The hows and wheres and whens all conspire with each other and try in vain to give way to the whys. It all seems so random sometimes.

I think that I like being by myself. Maybe.

Today, I woke up at 10, went back to bed, floundered around in my underwear, played a mindless but entertaining video game, tried to get to the gym, listened to music way too loudly, sipped on warm Gatorade until the wavering heat of the afternoon started to tell me it was much, much nicer outside.

Gatorade always makes me think about when I was young and pathetically ill. That was the only time Gatorade was ever in the house. I drink it more often now without an accompanying ailment, however the Lemon-Lime flavor always brings flashbacks of fever and phlegm.

The video game of choice was Alien Hominid. It's probably the most violent and carpal tunnel inducing game that I own. Even though there a setting to turn off the gore, I don't let the monkeys play this one. Come get me you FBI mofos I can take your heat. And your spaceships. Bring it.

I'm stuck right now, in Area 51 against an electric wielding foe. It's what I get for trying the Medium difficulty setting.

I could blame all this behavior on the strangely mild but ominous stomach flu type thing that has been plaguing me this weekend. Or the lack of other beings in the house to answer to. But I know better. Even though my responsibility to be present has somewhat been lessened, I find myself down the street in my wife's presence still more than anyone else. This weekend we were pretty much sick together, switching off to who was feeling better with toxic burps, diarrhea and keeping the monkeys from playing dodgeball with kitchen utensils.

She asked me a bit ago when I fell out of love with her. There's a kicker of a question if I ever heard one. I couldn't answer her. Because I don't know. I should know but I don't. Maybe I never did. Maybe it's always been a different kind of love. Perhaps I'm just a madman.

So then I don't talk about it. If ever you have a conversation with me and I am silent, it's because I like you and I'm trying to think of the best words to put together but there just aren't any that are suitable. It drives her crazy. She says I need to communicate better with those that I may wish to have any kind of relationship with. Easier said than done. Except in my case it's easier done than said, though. Sans the easier part.

Even with all this freedom, I feel all the passion draining out of my life slowly. My confusions about social interaction are turning me slightly asexual. Lately, I haven't the desire to be with anyone in the palm-sweating romantical type fashion. I don't want to seek out dates or debaucherous nights on the town. I mean, I do, but I don't. You know?

No, I imagine some of you don't know.

But then, she doesn't either. She's familiar, she's what I know about my experience with love. She's a safe haven. She's comfortable. She's a friend beyond obligation. I wish that I could be what she needs in all respects. I just want to be able to please people. That is all.

Currently it's my turn to be nauseous. Time to go drink some more Gatorade and go to bed.

Peace,
Simon

Quoth the Monkey

Elder Monkey goes outside to wait for the bus: "This morning smells like dog."

Mom, a bit perplexed: "What?"

Elder Monkey: "You know, it's like dog. There's this boy in my class who smells like dog."

Mom, a bit aghast: "Did you tell him that?"

Elder Monkey: "Yeah."

Mom, a bit more aghast: "Why?"

Elder Monkey: "Cause he smells like DOG."

Apparently the dog in question was not just a dog but a Doooooooooog, spoken, I am sure, complete with the swoopy, dialect, dramatic eyes, hands, and head tilt. I swear, he's a teenager trapped in a five-year olds body.

Like when talking about his impending trip to see March of the Penguins this afternoon, he will so get on your case if you call it "that Penguin movie."

"Daddy, it's March of the Penguins." (Insert silent sigh that so says "Why do I always have to correct you people.") I'll be awaiting his review this evening.

This has been the comedic highlight of my week. Up there with my wife's description of that sequel to Silence of the Lambs wherein she will never again be able to watch Ray Liotta without giving new meaning to the term the term brain food. Sorry if that's a spoiler to anyone but really, there aught to be an extra warning on movies that involve eating one's own brain.

I'm pretty sure it doesn't make you smarter but go ahead let me know how that works out for you.

Peace,
Simon