Hi guys and dolls.
So in short:
Vacation = a surly harlot.
Deadlines = a gaseous giant.
Computers = several boorish madmen.
Money = an invisible musty stench.
Family = no chance of parole.
Voice = wrenched.
Me = trying to please god and/or man and/or monsters.
therefore
Deadlines + Computers + Family + Me - Voice - Money - Vacation = A ferocious, mentally retarded chicken that likes to pluck out my eyebrows and then glue them on backwards.
But not to worry. I don't do Hudsucker moments anymore.
This moment of lucidity has been brought to you by the lack of REM cycles and viable purpose and may dissappear after the editor reads this and proclaims, "Back to the steamy depths from whence you arose!"
Peace,
Simon
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Distractions
The night was too cold for sleep.
"So. 26 in a 15 school zone crossing..."
I really need to get new wiper blades for the windshield.
"On your way to work this morning? Still asleep?"
The steam in the retention pond is doing some spectacular sky writing.
"Everything going okay at home?"
I wonder if I'll ever see Japan? Probably cold there this time of year, too.
"Your insurance card is expired. Better get that taken care of otherwise it's a $70 fine."
My cowlicks are in rare form this morning.
"Back in a moment."
My teeth are starting to hurt again. Guess I should get them looked at.
"This constitutes a $254 ticket."
Why doesn't this card fit in my wallet like every other card.
"You look like the face of a man who has more than a few distractions on his plate at the moment. I assume that this a gross underestimation?"
I look up for a moment.
He beats out a rhythm with the contents of his hands. He stares, pondering with intent. His gaze wanders around, on the pillow and blanket in the seat next to me, my toothbrush and a jug of water. He continues on to the two empty child seats in the backseat, the towel soaking up the spot where snacks were spilled, the dirty sneakers and soiled clothes.
"These are yours. Stop somewhere, wake up and then give it 110% while you are on the road, okay?"
There is no ticket in the stack he returns to me.
"On your way now."
Hey, look at the pretty colors in the sky...
There may have been some words on my part in all of that but I honestly can't remember a single one.
"So. 26 in a 15 school zone crossing..."
I really need to get new wiper blades for the windshield.
"On your way to work this morning? Still asleep?"
The steam in the retention pond is doing some spectacular sky writing.
"Everything going okay at home?"
I wonder if I'll ever see Japan? Probably cold there this time of year, too.
"Your insurance card is expired. Better get that taken care of otherwise it's a $70 fine."
My cowlicks are in rare form this morning.
"Back in a moment."
My teeth are starting to hurt again. Guess I should get them looked at.
"This constitutes a $254 ticket."
Why doesn't this card fit in my wallet like every other card.
"You look like the face of a man who has more than a few distractions on his plate at the moment. I assume that this a gross underestimation?"
I look up for a moment.
He beats out a rhythm with the contents of his hands. He stares, pondering with intent. His gaze wanders around, on the pillow and blanket in the seat next to me, my toothbrush and a jug of water. He continues on to the two empty child seats in the backseat, the towel soaking up the spot where snacks were spilled, the dirty sneakers and soiled clothes.
"These are yours. Stop somewhere, wake up and then give it 110% while you are on the road, okay?"
There is no ticket in the stack he returns to me.
"On your way now."
Hey, look at the pretty colors in the sky...
There may have been some words on my part in all of that but I honestly can't remember a single one.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
A Sum of Parts
I could go on about the horrendous behavior that besets our species on this day.
But I won't. You can find those words elsewhere. Because...
There seems to be an excess of people that don't need to hear about that. People with misconnected parts and missing pieces. People with their parts on inside out and backwards, trying to get with other peoples parts. Those with parts that are threadbare do fall apart easily. There is no instruction manual for reference.
I'd gladly give you my body or my mind if it pleased you, whichever you prefer, but I only have one of each to spare. And I don't know anything about souls or whether they exist. But my body and my mind tell me that if I see one that is lonely, then give what I am able.
Love cannot be an idle notion, but it runs the risk being an idol. It's something to do, not to worship. Love is to be consumed voraciously. When it's great it's really great.
Whether I have a soul or not, I am driven to hone that innate ability. Regardless of what I may think I do not place it in the framework of a day, but I will give the affections if I am able. Love can be automatic if you let it. And since you are there and I am here, this is all I can do.
For most of you, we've never spoken, we've never met, and yet if it weren't for you I'd still be futzing around in oblivion. So this is all I can humbly give you for now. I hope it fills you up at least a fraction.
click me
Love you guys.
Peace,
Simon
But I won't. You can find those words elsewhere. Because...
There seems to be an excess of people that don't need to hear about that. People with misconnected parts and missing pieces. People with their parts on inside out and backwards, trying to get with other peoples parts. Those with parts that are threadbare do fall apart easily. There is no instruction manual for reference.
I'd gladly give you my body or my mind if it pleased you, whichever you prefer, but I only have one of each to spare. And I don't know anything about souls or whether they exist. But my body and my mind tell me that if I see one that is lonely, then give what I am able.
Love cannot be an idle notion, but it runs the risk being an idol. It's something to do, not to worship. Love is to be consumed voraciously. When it's great it's really great.
Whether I have a soul or not, I am driven to hone that innate ability. Regardless of what I may think I do not place it in the framework of a day, but I will give the affections if I am able. Love can be automatic if you let it. And since you are there and I am here, this is all I can do.
For most of you, we've never spoken, we've never met, and yet if it weren't for you I'd still be futzing around in oblivion. So this is all I can humbly give you for now. I hope it fills you up at least a fraction.
click me
Love you guys.
Peace,
Simon
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Monday, February 06, 2006
Bring Out Your Dead
I suppose it was not a good idea to go see that movie* by myself. You know what I'm talking about.
I was alone in the theater. The last showing of the evening. It's just a movie. It's gotten hype. So what. It didn't make me cry. It didn't make me angry. In fact by the end of it, I was a zombie. Everything had been sucked out.
You know what makes zombies perpetually walk on the way they do even though they are dead? There is a ringing in their ears that keep their bodies active in drudging rhythm. It's a mechanical buzzing pulse that shoots signals through dead nerves, slowly jolting arms, legs, fingers, causing strokes and flinches and squirms.
I did squirm. I did watch. It was the kiss that did me in. Secrets and lies and marriage and love all in a flurry. I wish I had a fishing buddy. The fish hooks in my gullet are starting to show signs of infection. Snap out of it, it's just a movie.
I'm gay. So what? I was unfaithful. So what? I've broken through. So what? This is old news. She knows all this. I've never been gay bashed, harmed or flushed out because of what I did. Then why does the gaze through the screen mark me in that way. It's just a movie. Just a goddamn movie.
It is that I am an Ennis and a Jack. A grunting grope and insatiable lust all conveniently mashed up, screwing each other in a violent, incessant tumble. They are competitors in a quiz show, flipping those buttons that glow green and red, off and on, off and on, reject, accept, deny, comply, conform, reform, deform, buzz, buzz, buzzzz.
Those are the pulses that move my appendages. And I wish that they could bring satisfaction but the touch of your own rotting hand gets weary.
But it's just a movie. Just fleeting pieces of flickering light. I mumble a bit, stare at the reliquary and throw myself in a cauldron waiting to be reborn.
The ringing will go away. It's frigid in the empty parking lot. The pulse makes me stop moving for a while.
I become paralyzed because I am ashamed of the past.
-------------------
I work a lot. But I gather you know that.
I can't begin to describe to you the wall that stands in my way. It would be a lie to say that my current state doesn't give me thoughts that make me want to quit.
I didn't want it to affect me. But I can't stop thinking about it. I won't ever stop thinking about it. It's become so great that it interferes with my work. It's difficult when what you do, the thing you devote the majority of your life to, the bulk of your energy, serves no discernible end function other than feeding a frenzied mass of distraction.
I become paralyzed because I am afraid of the future.
But my cycle goes on. The deadline will come and go with or without me and I will still be here waiting for the next one to roll around. I'll press the buttons that make things pulse, present them with the similar lights and noise and hope the pattern is pleasing.
I'll get through it and remember that I have a cool job, I have people that are concerned for my well being, and I will go back to being one of the strong ones. One of the dependable ones. One of the safe ones.
Dead ends used to be easy decisions. You either stop or turn around. Even a non-choice is a choice, an inaction of "I choose not to choose" is in itself still an action. Give me an excuse and I'm done for the day. I go to bed, start again. Or I put it in reverse and go back to the familiar.
It will be okay because it has to be. But now I look for the other hidden option to that scenario, one that occurs to me after staring at it long enough. If I don't act I'll still be thinking whether that crack in the barricade was large enough to cause collapse with a well placed punch and what exactly is on the other side.
I aim to find out.
Peace,
Simon
*PS: Ironically, Dan Renzi today points to an article about the movie's aspects of adultery. I could have a lot to say about it but it's hard for me to be objective about it at the moment. You might want to comment there for any discussion on this to be effective.
I was alone in the theater. The last showing of the evening. It's just a movie. It's gotten hype. So what. It didn't make me cry. It didn't make me angry. In fact by the end of it, I was a zombie. Everything had been sucked out.
You know what makes zombies perpetually walk on the way they do even though they are dead? There is a ringing in their ears that keep their bodies active in drudging rhythm. It's a mechanical buzzing pulse that shoots signals through dead nerves, slowly jolting arms, legs, fingers, causing strokes and flinches and squirms.
I did squirm. I did watch. It was the kiss that did me in. Secrets and lies and marriage and love all in a flurry. I wish I had a fishing buddy. The fish hooks in my gullet are starting to show signs of infection. Snap out of it, it's just a movie.
I'm gay. So what? I was unfaithful. So what? I've broken through. So what? This is old news. She knows all this. I've never been gay bashed, harmed or flushed out because of what I did. Then why does the gaze through the screen mark me in that way. It's just a movie. Just a goddamn movie.
It is that I am an Ennis and a Jack. A grunting grope and insatiable lust all conveniently mashed up, screwing each other in a violent, incessant tumble. They are competitors in a quiz show, flipping those buttons that glow green and red, off and on, off and on, reject, accept, deny, comply, conform, reform, deform, buzz, buzz, buzzzz.
Those are the pulses that move my appendages. And I wish that they could bring satisfaction but the touch of your own rotting hand gets weary.
But it's just a movie. Just fleeting pieces of flickering light. I mumble a bit, stare at the reliquary and throw myself in a cauldron waiting to be reborn.
The ringing will go away. It's frigid in the empty parking lot. The pulse makes me stop moving for a while.
I become paralyzed because I am ashamed of the past.
-------------------
I work a lot. But I gather you know that.
I can't begin to describe to you the wall that stands in my way. It would be a lie to say that my current state doesn't give me thoughts that make me want to quit.
I didn't want it to affect me. But I can't stop thinking about it. I won't ever stop thinking about it. It's become so great that it interferes with my work. It's difficult when what you do, the thing you devote the majority of your life to, the bulk of your energy, serves no discernible end function other than feeding a frenzied mass of distraction.
I become paralyzed because I am afraid of the future.
But my cycle goes on. The deadline will come and go with or without me and I will still be here waiting for the next one to roll around. I'll press the buttons that make things pulse, present them with the similar lights and noise and hope the pattern is pleasing.
I'll get through it and remember that I have a cool job, I have people that are concerned for my well being, and I will go back to being one of the strong ones. One of the dependable ones. One of the safe ones.
Dead ends used to be easy decisions. You either stop or turn around. Even a non-choice is a choice, an inaction of "I choose not to choose" is in itself still an action. Give me an excuse and I'm done for the day. I go to bed, start again. Or I put it in reverse and go back to the familiar.
It will be okay because it has to be. But now I look for the other hidden option to that scenario, one that occurs to me after staring at it long enough. If I don't act I'll still be thinking whether that crack in the barricade was large enough to cause collapse with a well placed punch and what exactly is on the other side.
I aim to find out.
Peace,
Simon
*PS: Ironically, Dan Renzi today points to an article about the movie's aspects of adultery. I could have a lot to say about it but it's hard for me to be objective about it at the moment. You might want to comment there for any discussion on this to be effective.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
The Good Fight
...Agent Fiver to checkpoint...do you copy?
...voice fading. battery backup failing...fsshh...ust be quick. coordinates unknown. rain clear but cold coming fast.
big dogs closing in. copy?...pull up pull up pull up...copy? please advi...
...fssssssssssssssshhhhhhh....
...voice fading. battery backup failing...fsshh...ust be quick. coordinates unknown. rain clear but cold coming fast.
big dogs closing in. copy?...pull up pull up pull up...copy? please advi...
...fssssssssssssssshhhhhhh....
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
We Like To Share At Work
Today's morning email offering at work:
donuts AND meatsticks...
...in the break area. Enjoy!
Do I dare even go there?
Peace,
Simon
donuts AND meatsticks...
...in the break area. Enjoy!
Do I dare even go there?
Peace,
Simon
Monday, January 30, 2006
Secret Simon Vid No. 003
Watch the vid.
Unacceptable levels of toxic heavy metal detected in the blood stream. The contents of the heart are heaviest when it rains.
Peace,
Simon
Friday, January 27, 2006
Sketch o' the Day ~ Power Lines
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Flight Manual
EVERYDAY
Backyard. After school.
Receive instruction from pilot.
"Daddy, daddy, com'ere, com'ere, com'ere. I have a idea. Now turn around. NO no no! Not that way. The other way. No. Daddy what's wrong with you? Okay, now ready?"
Latch monkey onto back. Check for death grip around neck. Prepare for departure.
--FIRST--
"OK now go truck go!"
ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
Maniacal laughter ensues. Watch small animals fear for their lives.
--OFTEN--
"Now up dere!"
shwoooof...sputter sputter...Nyeeeeerrr..
Turn truck into plane at a moments notice.
-ALSO--
"Go dat way!"
rrr..rrr...rrrr...screech!
Monkeys aren't the best pilots.
--EVENTUALLY--
"Aw man!"
Zippp..shzerp.
Drop monkey back at the depot.
--THEN--
"Daddy, daddy, com'ere. I have a idea..."
Refuel for further expeditions.
YESTERDAY
Backyard. After school.
Repeat standard operating procedure.
--BUT--
rrr..rrr...rrrr...screech!
...
*trip*
...
Watch monkey fly in slow motion after they've hit the ejector seat. Lose glasses. Eat dirt.
--ALAS--
Flooosh...tumble tumble...
Lie in wet leaves.
--FINALLY--
Blink...blink...blink
"Again!"
Frantically search for glasses before monkey steps on them.
--SO--
Apparently I should have my license revoked. But it seems I've been let off the hook. As for the daredevil? Not even a scratch.
Peace,
Simon
Backyard. After school.
Receive instruction from pilot.
"Daddy, daddy, com'ere, com'ere, com'ere. I have a idea. Now turn around. NO no no! Not that way. The other way. No. Daddy what's wrong with you? Okay, now ready?"
Latch monkey onto back. Check for death grip around neck. Prepare for departure.
--FIRST--
"OK now go truck go!"
ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
Maniacal laughter ensues. Watch small animals fear for their lives.
--OFTEN--
"Now up dere!"
shwoooof...sputter sputter...Nyeeeeerrr..
Turn truck into plane at a moments notice.
-ALSO--
"Go dat way!"
rrr..rrr...rrrr...screech!
Monkeys aren't the best pilots.
--EVENTUALLY--
"Aw man!"
Zippp..shzerp.
Drop monkey back at the depot.
--THEN--
"Daddy, daddy, com'ere. I have a idea..."
Refuel for further expeditions.
YESTERDAY
Backyard. After school.
Repeat standard operating procedure.
--BUT--
rrr..rrr...rrrr...screech!
...
*trip*
...
Watch monkey fly in slow motion after they've hit the ejector seat. Lose glasses. Eat dirt.
--ALAS--
Flooosh...tumble tumble...
Lie in wet leaves.
--FINALLY--
Blink...blink...blink
"Again!"
Frantically search for glasses before monkey steps on them.
--SO--
Apparently I should have my license revoked. But it seems I've been let off the hook. As for the daredevil? Not even a scratch.
Peace,
Simon
Monday, January 23, 2006
From The Desk Of...
So it seems the marvelous mr. twentysomething has given me a chance at a meme. And this one involves pretty pictures so there we go. Does the desktop make the man? If so I've got a split personality disorder.
Hm. I've got a threesome of computers that I use equally every day. So it's only fair to show all three (er, or not fair...don't hate.) If computers have that same love/hate syndrome that we do with our lovers (although I've yet to have any firsthand knowledge of such things) does this make me a playa?
Machine No. 1 - aka "Zeus (Type-A Workorse)"
Don't be fooled by the amount of room on the surface. There's a folder on here that is threatening to burst if you sneeze the wrong way.
Machine No. 2 - aka "Jan Brady (Sensitive Middle Child)"
This is actually one snippet of a much larger picture. Maybe I'll finish it in time for next winter...
Machine No. 3 - aka "Johnny Appleseed (Slow-Ass Delivery Boy)"
This image was commisioned for a nifty banner for mr. ridiculous raw youth. This is also a more accurate representation of my real life desktop. Or should I just say my real life.
I don't tag. But feel free to play along and link to yours in the comments if you do. Started by mr. madlife and you can also see a whole lot more in one place courtesy of mr. stop touching my food.
Peace,
Simon
Hm. I've got a threesome of computers that I use equally every day. So it's only fair to show all three (er, or not fair...don't hate.) If computers have that same love/hate syndrome that we do with our lovers (although I've yet to have any firsthand knowledge of such things) does this make me a playa?
Machine No. 1 - aka "Zeus (Type-A Workorse)"
Don't be fooled by the amount of room on the surface. There's a folder on here that is threatening to burst if you sneeze the wrong way.
Machine No. 2 - aka "Jan Brady (Sensitive Middle Child)"
This is actually one snippet of a much larger picture. Maybe I'll finish it in time for next winter...
Machine No. 3 - aka "Johnny Appleseed (Slow-Ass Delivery Boy)"
This image was commisioned for a nifty banner for mr. ridiculous raw youth. This is also a more accurate representation of my real life desktop. Or should I just say my real life.
I don't tag. But feel free to play along and link to yours in the comments if you do. Started by mr. madlife and you can also see a whole lot more in one place courtesy of mr. stop touching my food.
Peace,
Simon
Friday, January 20, 2006
Thought Balloons
If you think on it long enough, someone else will eventually say it. This is the best thing I've seen in a long time:
Dance, Monkey, Dance
(Via Fox and the City. More at Ernie Cline's site.)
Peace,
Simon
Dance, Monkey, Dance
Peace,
Simon
Wide Open Spaces
The best things about going to work at 5 'o clock-ish in the AM:
So there are times when it's good to be alone. (Okay, back to work with you slave boy!)
Peace,
Simon
- There's no one on the roads or bridges. (Sometimes it seems like you're flying...)
- There's no one at work. (My productivity decreases exponentially after 9AM...)
- Playing my music really, REALLY LOUD. (An empty warehouse often makes a great concert hall...)
- Belting to said music really, REALLY LOUD. (Madame Butterfly, Shakira or Fatboy Slim? All three of course...)
- Breaking into my silly white-boy groove at any given time. (Because it feels good when no one's looking...)
So there are times when it's good to be alone. (Okay, back to work with you slave boy!)
Peace,
Simon
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
Secret Simon Vid No. 002
Watch the vid.
I've been in a flood. But not the kind where you drown.
I've never felt so much compassion from total strangers as I have in the last week. To everyone who has written emails and messages I thank you for your kindness. I never expected that one little glimpse of my silly mug would cause the stir that it did.
Peace,
Simon
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
I've Got That Feeling Again...In Between My Toes
My ass smells like bananas.
Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.*
I was so proud of myself for actually sticking to my brand new "Wake up at 4AM to get out of work by 2PM" routine this morning. Things were going well. I had time to shower, shave, find socks without holes in them and even make a smoothie to drink on the way to work.
Now's the part where you put on your 3-D glasses that were given to you on the way in. At some point I confused the contents of my hands and upon trying to start my car, the lid popped off and spilled my morning libation...All. Over. Everything.
Right, so I'm not just clumsy. When I spill it's usually in conjunction with all kinds of other sound effects that imply height and breadth. Splattered is good. As is hurtled and smashed. With a touch of sloshed, gurgled and oozed.
Now of course I've this fabulous sticky sweet concoction permeating all my clothes, the seat of my car, the driveway, the windshield, all the essential operating pedals...the roof. It's dark and cold and there is definitely something in my socks that shouldn't be there. Somehow, my underwear has escaped unscathed.
About an hour delay, many towels and a change of clothes later (alas my socks are holy again) I make it to work. My butt is thankfully not wet but still I'm sure people will wonder why there are whiffs of a produce section whenever I amble by. The fruity aroma was pleasant enough this morning but I can't wait to see what my car smells like this afternoon.
Ah, well. I would be far more annoyed with all this if I wasn't consistently a Genuine Grade-A Clutz. And because if this was an olympic event I'd have scored the gold with this particularly brilliant technique in my car. Twice before already.
Peace,
Simon
*(Anyone care to guess this movie line? Maybe I'll give you a prize...)
Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.*
I was so proud of myself for actually sticking to my brand new "Wake up at 4AM to get out of work by 2PM" routine this morning. Things were going well. I had time to shower, shave, find socks without holes in them and even make a smoothie to drink on the way to work.
Now's the part where you put on your 3-D glasses that were given to you on the way in. At some point I confused the contents of my hands and upon trying to start my car, the lid popped off and spilled my morning libation...All. Over. Everything.
Right, so I'm not just clumsy. When I spill it's usually in conjunction with all kinds of other sound effects that imply height and breadth. Splattered is good. As is hurtled and smashed. With a touch of sloshed, gurgled and oozed.
Now of course I've this fabulous sticky sweet concoction permeating all my clothes, the seat of my car, the driveway, the windshield, all the essential operating pedals...the roof. It's dark and cold and there is definitely something in my socks that shouldn't be there. Somehow, my underwear has escaped unscathed.
About an hour delay, many towels and a change of clothes later (alas my socks are holy again) I make it to work. My butt is thankfully not wet but still I'm sure people will wonder why there are whiffs of a produce section whenever I amble by. The fruity aroma was pleasant enough this morning but I can't wait to see what my car smells like this afternoon.
Ah, well. I would be far more annoyed with all this if I wasn't consistently a Genuine Grade-A Clutz. And because if this was an olympic event I'd have scored the gold with this particularly brilliant technique in my car. Twice before already.
Peace,
Simon
*(Anyone care to guess this movie line? Maybe I'll give you a prize...)
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