My name is Simon. And I like to do drawrings.

So you already know that I am an excellent dancer, singer, scientific genius, and ninja superhero. But you probably didn't know that I'm also kind of a Monet. Not this kind of a Monet...

Like, a real one?

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I totally won the school art contest in fourth grade.

And now I've decided to go back to my artsy-fartsy roots by taking a class at the most prestigious of all local community colleges, Brookhaven. To really get into the mood, I've essentially plastered the walls of my apartment with my pieces (that's art-talk for drawings).

Now, I haven't watermarked any of my pieces (see above for definition)...also they were taken with a crappy cell phone camera...BUT you might want to say you knew me when. Or at least followed my blog.

I heart my co-workers.

Me: "Hey, what's up?"

Female coworker: "Nothing...just buffin' my peach."

I turned around, confused. She was holding a peach...and she was buffing it.

Later, I explained to the same coworker that these...

...are not called "tennyshoes." They are tennis. shoes. As in you play tennis while wearing them. She wears them during her Latin Heat classes.

Then I found out that another coworker took this person to prom:

She was on American Gladiators, y'all. For realz.

Seriously, my job rules.

Sam Rockwell = Sid Vicious?

Discuss.

Five Things I've Discovered Via Mobiiiiiile

• My left foot is the best-tasting part of my whole body. I have 18 mosquito bites on that foot. WTF. On a size 7.5 foot, that is a helluva lot of nibbles. There isn't enough Cortizone on the entire planet to stop this itching. I'm so freaking lucky I was too young to remember having chicken pox...my parents would have murdered me. I am not of the "leave it alone" school; I'm more of the "whine a crapload and scratch the shit out of it until you have an ugly scar" school.

EW.

• There is at least one nude beach in Texas. It's called Hippie Hollow, natch. And it is frequented by people who ought to stay home when nude. As Jerry Seinfeld once said, "the thing you don't realize is that there's good naked and bad naked." These folks? Bad naked.

• Taking mirror photos is hard. And dumb. But my hat is awesome.

• Baby eels have no faces. Or more likely, tapas restaurants are scamming folks by painting gray stripes on delicious salty noodles and serving them as baby eels. Duh times ten.

• You will always look at this. And then I will get to punch you.

So I'm a Slacker. Squared.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, so it's been a while since my last post. I was keeping a running list of blog ideas in my BlackBerry, which was recently replaced by this little slice of heaven:

And the note application I'm now using sucks. So clearly it's not my fault.

Here's a partial list of things that have (and have not) been filling up my spare time:.

• Brunch. This  pseudo-meal has become a twice-a-week tradition. Getting hammered + breakfast foods = um, yes please. Hmmm, should I pair my bottomless mimosa with a cheeseburger or pancakes? The obvious choice is anything smothered in fried eggs.

• Concerts. Nostalgia washed over me at the recent Toadies concert, where I guzzled lukewarm Bud Light, rocked my Chuck Taylors and threw the horns. I'll be doing the same at The Pixies show in a couple of weeks, but I'm pretty sure the Matt & Kim show calls for more hipster flare.
• Work. Note to self: go to Idaho and mug this person.
• Class. Again. Yep, I'm back in college. Kinda. Community college. I have now been in post-high school education for 13 years. That has to be some kind of record, although I guess Rodney Dangerfield is still slightly ahead.
• Sweating to death. Seriously.

• Not going to the gym. I quit my last gym, joined a new gym a month ago...and went three times. To be honest, I really don't foresee adding to that at any time in the near future. The reason I quit my last gym? They called and e-mailed nastygrams when I hadn't been for a while. My new gym doesn't give a crap whether I go or not, as long as I fork over $30 a month.
• Not going on vacation. I seriously can't remember my last vacation. Was it to Jamaica for spring break 1999? Ah, memories: free Red Stripe beer and a nasty sunburn. And "staycations" don't count. Yeah, hanging out in my crappy apartment with a Mai Tai and a can of Easy Cheese is totally the same thing as a week in paradise.
• Not watching TV. This will be changing shortly. It's football season, bitches. SKINS.

So there you have it, folks. You're all caught up. Please don't hate me for my last few weeks of booze-infused blog absence. I promise I'll try to never leave you again.

Dissecting the Hipster, Part 1

I have no fucking clue what a hipster is. There, I said it.

I really thought all that mess was just kind of the style these days.

Now I just feel old and totally out of it. Clearly this means I have to start wearing nude pantyhose and orthopedic shoes and taking Metamucil and writing checks at the grocery store and keeping hard candy in my pocketbook now.

Hold the phone.

Let's wiki-pedia it. "Hipster is a slang term that first appeared in the 1940s, and was revived in the 1990s and 2000s often to describe types of young, recently-settled urban middle class adults and older teenagers with interests in non-mainstream fashion and culture, particularly alternative music, indie rock, independent film, magazines such as Vice and Clash, and websites like Pitchfork Media."


How about Urban Dictionary? "Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter...Hipsters reject the culturally-ignorant attitudes of mainstream consumers, and are often be seen wearing vintage and thrift store inspired fashions, tight-fitting jeans, old-school sneakers, and sometimes thick rimmed glasses. Both hipster men and women sport similar androgynous hair styles that include combinations of messy shag cuts and asymmetric side-swept bangs...Despite misconceptions based on their aesthetic tastes, hipsters tend to be well educated and often have liberal arts degrees, or degrees in maths and sciences, which also require certain creative analytical thinking abilities."

So, hipsters are men or women, 20-39, who like art and music, wear cool clothes, including old-school sneakers and funky glasses, have good hair with side-swept bangs, and college degrees? That sounds like half the people I saw out last weekend. That sounds like half the people I know.

(On an unrelated note, make sure you look up your name on Urban Dictionary. Mine is crazy accurate.)

I am now on a mission to decode the hipster mystery. To help me with this, Sol and I are engaging in a friendly game of Hipster Bingo. This might be preliminarily unfair, considering Sol is actually from New York, the mecca of all Hipsterdom, and he has an automatically cool name, grew up without television and wears cool Elvis Costello glasses. Hipster? Hmmmm...

Time to study The Hipster Handbook, I guess. Game on.

Criminal Stupidity: "Son, you've got a panty on your head."

So you feel like knocking over a drive-thru. OK. What's the first thing you grab to cover your face from nosy surveillance cameras? Ski mask? Nah. Chewbacca mask? Nah. Dirty jock strap and some paper clips? Yeah, that's the ticket!



This dumbass brings to mind one of the funniest movie scenes in history.