Vicarious Escapes

March 31, 2009

Every so often I stumble upon a story and see myself as the central character:

It sounded like a bunch of centaurs were following an exercise video upstairs, right above my bed this morning. Interesting visual, but at 7 AM there ain’t a damn thing more fascinating and beautiful than the backs of my eyelids underneath the blankets.

jeff-simmermonThus begins another installment in a blog that I cruise to daily, hoping for a new entry. The best stories, writes the author, Jeff Simmermon, are “fertilized with a pinch of some amazing shit that always starts with ‘And I am NOT lying.’ “

I also enjoy watching videos of Simmermon’s oral storytelling, including this one. They endear me more to his writing, enriching the already distinctive voice on the page.

His penchant for self-deprecation is another allure, including this example that gives me the sensation of looking in the mirror:

I am an ugly, short-tempered thing before noon, barely rational after eight hours’ sleep and 3 cups of coffee.

Simmermon’s brushes with everday life in New York City and his adventures elsewhere are brief vicarious escapes from the Portland humdrum. Then again, life here isn’t dull. My encounters with it require more imagination and less monotone.