The Road to Genius: My Story

When people hear that I am a genius, the first thing they usually want to know is HOW I know I’m a genius, and how long I’ve known it.

The thing non-geniuses don’t understand is . . .well, pretty much everything. The fact is, being a genius is something you just “know,” like whether or not you like tuna fish, or how soon you’re going to puke. It’s a gut feeling. If you don’t know for sure that you’re a genius, trust me, you’re not.

Sure, there are IQ tests and other various methods of measuring “intelligence,” but these are all crude attempts by non-geniuses to quantify something they clearly don’t understand. All true geniuses reject these kinds of tests as stupid and beside the point, and so do I—because, as we’ve already established, that’s what geniuses do.

Accepting one’s own genius is a long process of discovering, time and time again, that you are smarter and better than everyone else. In school, it did not take long for me to realize that my fellow classmates were all whiny, snot-nosed know-nothings. It became clearer with each passing year that my teachers too were complete nincompoops; losers, every one. And when I entered the working world, I was gobsmacked by the absolute shit-storm of stupidity that surrounded me on a daily basis. No matter which company I worked for, the story was always the same: numbskulls and boneheads from top to bottom running around making crap-tastic decisions that resulted in huge clusterfucks of mind-melting idiocy—all of which could have been avoided if they had simply been intelligent enough to ask me first.

Alas, being ignored and overlooked by others is not uncommon in the life of a genius. Few people appreciate how much their lives could improve if they would just shut up and listen to what I’m telling them. But no, they’d rather listen to themselves than to me, even after I’ve explained, in no uncertain terms, how inferior their opinions are to mine.

People think being a genius is all MENSA mixers and Jeopardy tryouts, but the reality is much less glamorous. You can tell people over and over again how brilliant you are compared to them, and half the time they won’t even believe you. But what do you expect from non-geniuses? They are handicapped, after all, and because of their shortcomings we must rise above the fray and have pity on them. The lot of the genius is never easy; we must console ourselves with the knowledge that we are always right, and they are wrong, even if they don’t know it yet. Which they don’t, because they are not us.

Do I Hate the Letter “G”?—A Personal Inquiry

Recently it has come to my attention that I have an unconscious bias against words that begin with the letter “g.”

An annoyingly careful reader pointed the problem out: “Have you ever noticed that you always use the word ‘cemetery’ instead of ‘graveyard’ to describe places where zombies rise from the dead?,” this reader noted. “You also use words like ‘oddball’ and ‘freak’ to describe people who are clearly ‘gifted’ with extraordinary talent or expertise. And nowhere in your work have I ever seen you use the words ‘gentrify’  or ‘gulag.’ What have you got against ‘g’ words?”

I of course consider it reprehensible to discriminate against any letter of the alphabet. To wit, I have lobbied extensively to allow drug companies to use more “z”s and “x”s in their product names, and have written to Congress to officially declare the letter “y” a vowel. So when the “g” problem surfaced, I conducted a full self-investigation and discovered, much to my chagrin, that I apparently do hate words that begin with the letter “g,” and avoid them at all costs.

The question is: Why?

At first, I thought my aversion to “g” words might be a result of my intense religious devotion. Out of respect for the Almighty, do I avoid using the letter “g” because the letters “o” and “d” naturally follow, and to type anything else would be blasphemy?

Then I began wonder if it might have something to do with my awful handwriting. A note I made in one of my high-school English notebooks clearly reads, “G words suck big time.” But upon closer inspection, what I appear to have actually written was, “Georgics sucks big time”—referring of course to the poem by Virgil, which does kind of suck, but does not explain my “g” problem.

Desperate to find an answer to my apparent bias, I took a magnifying glass and examined my computer keyboard. Under magnification, but invisible to the naked eye, I saw quite clearly that a largish muffin crumb was stuck under the letter “g” on my keyboard. Hardened and immovable, this crumb made it impossible for me to type a “g” even if I wanted to. This explains why, in one of my stories, the protagonist is afraid of a “host” instead of a “ghost,” an omission that led at least one prominent critic to describe my work as “borderline insane.”

I am happy to report that the problem has been solved. The crumb has been removed and I am now free to use a generous gaggle of gratuitous “g” words, including great glistening gobs of gerunds and other glorified gobbledygook. This newfound freedom to use all twenty-six letters of the alphabet will, I hope, lead to more fascinating and accessible literature—the kind that doesn’t suck, and doesn’t require a critic to interpret.  

Where DO I Get My Ideas?

People often ask me how I get my ideas, and the answer is simple: I steal them.

The first idea I ever stole was by accident. I was just a kid, maybe six years old, and it was just sitting out on the table at a friend’s house. It looked like a piece of candy, so I snatched it up in my little fist and shoved it in my pocket. Only later did I discover that it wasn’t candy at all; it was a stupid idea, and it tasted horrible, like an old brussel sprout.

You’d think that would’ve been the end of it, but you’d be wrong. I didn’t steal an idea for many years after that, but sometime in junior high school I saw what looked like a great idea tucked in between the pages of a girl’s science notebook, and I couldn’t resist. After that, all through high school, I stole ideas wherever I could find them—in lockers, on the bus, next to the tennis courts, under the gym bleachers—and hid them in my room at home, in a shoebox I kept in my closet.

Things got bad in college, where I almost got busted. But it’s hard to prove idea theft, so the law was on my side.

Since then, I’ve met many artists who admit that they too steal ideas, most of whom are also quick to point out that they “only steal from the best.” Not me. I’ll steal from anyone, anywhere, anytime. I like to break into people’s houses late at night and steal whatever ideas they’ve left lying around. Malls and grocery stores are good places, too, because hardly anyone is on the lookout for an idea thief when there’s so much other stuff to steal.

Bad ideas. Stupid ideas. Regrettable ideas. I don’t care—I’ll take them all. Once, I saw a homeless guy on the side of the road. I drove up next to him and gave him a five-dollar bill. What he didn’t know was that as I was handing him the bill, I was using my other hand to steal an idea that was hanging out of his right pants pocket. It turned out to be the worst idea in the world—something about drinking a bottle of Listerine—but I took it anyway.

My advice to anyone interested in writing is simple: do the math. If everyone else is stealing from “the best,” it stands to reason that the best ideas have been picked over pretty thoroughly. It makes much more sense to lower your standards, gather up a bunch of mediocre ideas that no one cares about, and work with those. That way, you’ll never run out of ideas, and you don’t have to fight the crowds for leftover scraps of a “great” idea.

All my stories come from stale, recycled ideas that nobody wants. What’s more, no one is ever going to steal from me, because compared to the best ideas out there, mine really suck. Nobody would ever want them, which means they’re all mine.

Mistakes? I think not.

Some readers of The Bleeder have reported running into a few “errors”—missing words, misspellings, factual inaccuracies, etc.—and have gleefully called them to my attention.

Let me clear this matter up by stating categorically that there are no mistakes or errors of any kind in The Bleeder. Everything in the book is precisely the way I, the artist, wanted it. And if to the layman it looks as if I’ve spelled soap “sowp,” or set the Crimean War in upstate New Jersey, it’s because that’s the way I wanted to do it. And, because I am the artist, I don’t have to explain why—that’s for others to puzzle out.

Now, I understand how much fun it is to find mistakes and errors in other people’s work. There is a certain type of person for whom identifying the shortcomings and inadequacies of others is a preoccupation (if not an actual occupation), and nothing gives them more pleasure than to point out, in the most unctuous tone possible, how you fucked up. The implication is that you are a mindless idiot and they, because they found the error, are a flipping genius—one who, tragically, has yet to receive the MacArthur grant they so richly deserve.

Well, all I have to say to that is: think again. Clearly, I am the genius who deserves a massive grant to enhance my obvious geniusness, and you—people who look for missing commas like they’re panning for gold—are the mindless idiots. Did it ever occur to you that one of the reasons I, the infallible artist, might introduce unorthodox spellings and certain grammatical mysteries into my work is to make you idiots happy? I mean, if the highlight of your day is finding a “mistake” in one of my stories—you’re welcome. How about a thank you?

My advice is: enjoy your little “discoveries,” and don’t bother me about this crap again. Remember, whenever you point out in your tsk-tsk schoolteacher voice that you found a tiny “boo boo,” all you’re really doing is letting everyone know how ignorant you are about art and literature. Next time you bump into something that your literal lizard mind thinks is a mistake, ask yourself this: If I were an infallible genius, is this the way I would do it?

The answer to that question is always going to be: yes. So shut up and keep reading.

What is Pembroke Press?

Since publishing The Bleeder, people have been asking me about my publisher, Pembroke Press—and, more to the point, how they might get their own scribblings published by Pembroke as well.

As it happens, Pembroke is an extremely selective publisher (some would say exclusionary), and, to date, has only agreed to publish my work under its label. When I wrote to the publisher and asked him why this was, he said, “You mean there are other people who waste their time writing?” I said yes, and went on to ask him if other writers could submit their work for review. “They can,” he responded, “but it would be a complete waste of their time, because I would just delete it.”

To understand this rather gruff response, one must understand Pembroke’s origins and management philosophy. Pembroke Press is named in honor of the spirit and character of the Welsh Pembroke Corgi, and as such it is the only publishing company entirely run and managed by short-legged dogs with an attitude. In order to get the attention of Pembroke’s management you have to feed them, and in order to do that, you have to be there at 5:30 in the morning, when the office opens. Furthermore, the only way to get Pembroke Press to publish anything is to threaten NOT to feed management at the appointed times, and to be able to carry through on that threat.

Unfortunately, feeding management is no guarantee. Corgis, as a rule, hate publishing almost as much as they hate reading, so getting them to do anything constructive during office hours is a challenge. Taking them to the dog park helps, but after that they’re usually ready to call it a day, and the next morning they hardly ever remember how nice you were to them the day before. So then you have to get up and do it all over again. It’s exhausting.

Not many people would put up with this kind of behavior from their publisher, but I do, because the alternative is listening to a bunch of cranky, demanding editors barking out random orders all day long. So go ahead and submit your work if you want; just know that Pembroke’s management has no interest in publishing books, even mine. I just happen to be the company’s caterer, so they throw me a bone every now and then to keep the chow coming.

My Fashion Secrets Revealed

Since I’ve been appearing in public more often to meet the massive demand for readings as a result of The Bleeder’s astonishing popularity (more than a dozen copies sold in the last month alone), people have been asking me how I achieve my distinctive middle-aged writer “look.”

At first, I thought these requests referred to the weary look I get on my face when people ask about the writers who influence and inspire me. It’s a ridiculous question, hence “the look,” because no one has ever influenced me, and I get inspiration from a can of Red Bull, not other writers. Other writers are the competition, after all, so why would I encourage them by buying and reading their books? From a business standpoint, it makes much more sense to burn other writers’ books, and you can burn a lot more books if you don’t slow down to read them.

But then I discovered that what people really want to know about is my singular fashion sense. Where do I shop? What sort of clothes do I buy? How often do I bathe? That sort of thing. People are idiots, it turns out, because they seem to think they can look like me if they just shop at the right stores and buy the right clothes. Sorry to disappoint you, idiots who read my books, but nothing could be further from the truth.

First, the haircut. It’s important, because I have maintained precisely the same hairstyle for more than forty years, a model of consistency that ensures I look my best in public. You don’t get hair like mine by getting impatient and messing with the style just because you’re bored with it. No, you go the same barber—Ray at The Sportsman’s on Cleveland Ave. in St. Paul—ask him to “trim it up,” and he gets you in the chair and out the door in under eight minutes. Do that every four weeks for the rest of your life and maybe, just maybe, you’ll have hair like mine.

Likewise, I’ve been wearing the same short-sleeved, single-colored, logo-less Polo knock-offs since I was two years old. I’ve been wearing these shirts for so long that it’s hard to tell if the shirts conform to my body or my body conforms to the shirts. As far as color goes, I favor grey and black, but have been known to wear dark green on special occasions. Most of the shirts I own are five to ten years old, and have been washed more than a hundred times, which helps break down the fibers for maximum comfort. And before I wear them, I usually leave them in the dryer for a day or two to get the proper amount of “crumple.”

The same sort of care goes into my choice of pants. In the summer, I wear a pair of aggressively faded brown cargo shorts with several large pockets on each side. I keep my phone, wallet, rabbit’s foot, tic-tacs, medications, inhaler, hand sanitizer, and a Power Bar in these pockets at all times, and cinch my belt up an extra notch if circumstances demand that I get up off the couch and stand for more than five minutes. In the winter, I wear long, beige cargo pants with precisely the same pocket arrangement, to avoid the confusion of where to put what that inevitably comes with other, lesser pants, like jeans or slacks. I use the same rigorous wash routine on my pants as I use with my shirts, except that the pants are only washed every third shirt cycle, extending their wearable life to more than a decade.

But what most people really want to know about are my shoes. Their obvious comfort and elegant practicality is the attraction, I think. They are size twelve Nike Air Monarchs, which have a classically minimalistic blue Nike swoosh stripe on the side and wide, cushioned soles to make it feel as if you are walking on, well, air. I would never wear a new pair of these beauties in public, however. The shoes I wear outside of the house are at least six months old, and their gently-used patina is achieved by going to the dog park in them five times a week, mowing the lawn and gardening in them, and traversing the occasional mud puddle when it rains. Oh, and my socks are white, cotton crews, which I buy in packs of eight from Target.

There’s a lot more to it than this, of course, but I don’t want to delude people into thinking that if they just do what I do, they can look like me. Decades of neglect and apathy have gone into what people now perceive as my “look,” and I’m not about to change, because then I’d be somebody else. And none of us wants that.

Reading The Bleeder: A Health Warning

I want to thank everyone who came out to the reading of my new book of short stories, The Bleeder, at Homewood Studios in north Minneapolis. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, but I have some concerns about those who mentioned that they laughed so hard, they "peed their pants."

Now, I realize that we are all getting older, and that occasional bouts of incontinence are a normal part of life as the body breaks down and forgets how to function. However, if you found yourself peeing involuntarily and spontaneously at something I said, it may be symptomatic of an underlying condition that you may want to get checked out. Many people, when they hear me read, feel a small amount of bile rise in their throat, and some flush red with either anger or embarrassment. And, to be sure, there have been a few people who suddenly soiled themselves and had to be removed from the room. But so many people reported episodes of pants-peeing the other night that it made me wonder if something else might be going on--something medical in nature, not just the result of garden-variety hilarity.

Some of the men, of course, may have accidentally popped an extra Flomax when they really intended to take a Viagra or Xanax, the two most common pharmaceuticals that my readers tend to ingest. As for the women, a simple hormonal imbalance could be the cause, though female hormone changes at my readings tend to take the form of flushed cheeks and occasional outbursts of "writer rage."

All I'm saying is, if you peed your pants at my reading the other night, please do me the courtesy of visiting your doctor to get a clean bill of health before you attend another one of my events. The material I read that night wasn't even my funniest stuff, so you can understand my concern. If you came to my next reading without a physician's approval, and one or more of your other organs started malfunctioning, there could be serious legal consequences. Besides, most of the places I read have only one bathroom, so everyone else would have to wait in line while you cleaned yourself up--all because you were too proud or stupid to admit to your doctor that you pee when I read. 

Safety for my readers is my first concern. So please, for your sake and mine, swallow your pride and see a doctor. Though public pants-peeing can be nothing more than a harmless response to humor, it's not always a laughing matter. 

Pioneer Press reviews The Bleeder

The Pioneer Press's Mary Ann Grossmann was kind enough to give my short story collection, The Bleeder, some love in Sunday's paper (June 14). It was the leadoff review for her summer reading round up. Here's the link to the full review: http://tinyurl.com/oul8y82

She liked most of the stories, but one of them appeared to have "upset" her. Here's what she wrote: "Tad Simons . . . offers eight varied and often funny stories in this collection. Seven are lots of fun; one is so upsetting it seems to have wandered in from another book."

At first I thought she was talking about the title story, The Bleeder, since people have told me that it, too, upset them. But no, she was talking about the story "Some Kind of Animal," which, ironically, happens to be one of my favorites. Yes, it's a little sick and twisted, but hey, I did my master's thesis on themes of evil in books by John Hawkes, so by comparison it's pretty tame.

Tragedies require tragic things to happen, so I personally take it as a compliment if I can actually upset someone in this day and age. I mean, have you seen the TV show Hannibal? Now there's some sick, twisted shit. I think "Some Kind of Animal" is funny too, because it satirizes the way in which men in this society feel emasculated, and what happens to one poor guy when he tries to reclaim some sense of masculinity for himself. All in the name of a woman, of course--but only her name, because he doesn't even really know her.

Anyway, it's nice to get some press. Thanks Mary Ann. 

About that photo . . .

Torrey Pines Beach, Del Mar, CA

Some of you have ignored my entreaties to read what I write, and have instead been asking me all kinds of questions about the photo on the homepage of this site. Where was it taken? Were the pelicans photoshopped in? Have I always been such a gifted photographer? Why do I write when I can take photos like this? Really, it's a crime that I am a writer and not a photographer. That kind of thing.

Well, friends who grew up with me will recognize this is the view from the ocean bluffs north of Torrey Pines State Park in Del Mar, California. This shot is looking south toward Torrey Pines State Park. La Jolla is off in the distance to the right, and no, I did not photoshop the pelicans in. These guys fly up and down the coast all day, riding the breeze off the ocean. I just waited patiently for them to organize themselves in the most photographically appealing manner possible, then snapped like crazy. The trippy texture of the photo is a Snapseed filter of some kind (I can't remember which), and the surf that day was exceptionally good. I don't know what's happened to the surf in my hometown, but every time I visit the waves seem to be perfect: 4-6 feet with a glassy face and gentle shoulders. Where were those waves when I was growing up? 

Anyway, I hope that clears up the mystery of the fabulous photo. Myriad other mysteries will be unmasked in this space in the weeks and months to come, including another big one that people I grew up with often ask: Why do I live in Minnesota now? After all, the waves here do suck pretty bad.