SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter. You can hear regret in his laughter.
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter.
He discovered that writing in the third person
becomes second nature
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter. You can hear regret in his laughter.
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter, while you do whatever it is that you do. While you watched episodes of The Wire, Simon wrote slogans stronger than crack. While you smoked trees in the bathroom at work, Simon penned a proposal to find new homes for squirrels displaced by forest fires. While you posted your political rants on social networks, Simon wrote speeches for the politicians you rallied against, and the politicians you rallied behind. While you texted your friends about that snake Gregory from work, Simon wrote a business plan for a contraption that allows snakes to give each other high-fives. While you were trying to get into Tina’s pants, Simon wrote a tweet that Tina now wants tattooed across her torso. While you were busy reading this bio, Simon was out there living life.
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter, not a professional athlete or sports journalist, but he insists that there’s no way wrestling should be retired from the Olympics. The International Olympic Committee must be senile. That’s the only reason they would conclude that the modern pentathlon has more historical legitimacy and contemporary draw than wrestling. Sure, Simon doesn’t follow wrestling, but c’mon. We’re talking wrestling. Wasn’t that like the first Olympic event ever? It was either wrestling or lion lancing. It’s certainly the most primal contact sport. No necessary equipment, only an opponent. It’s close contact, sweaty, and the victor is easily discernible. It must have everything that makes for a compelling competition, except blood. Maybe the IOC is corrupt. Simon doesn’t know. He really hasn’t done the research. It’s entirely possible that they’re just methodically eliminating vaguely homoerotic events. (Watch out, gymnastics and archery.) Maybe he should write a letter or something.
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter and the only ex-boyfriend you still think about regularly. You’d never admit this to anyone, but you really miss his chiseled jaw, his double-jointed fingers, and his unparalleled capacity for empathy. Sure, it wasn’t all great. Simon spent holidays volunteering at the children’s hospital, so you never spent Christmas together. He taught stray cats to read, so your books got all scratched up. Yet you wish you could’ve made it work. You broke up over 4 years ago, but your parents still don’t know. You’re afraid to disappoint them with the news. It was probably the biggest mistake of your life. How will you ever be happy now?
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter. Most people think that his work involves copyright law, and Simon is too drunk to correct them.
BORN: Ellis Island
HOME: Ellis Island
SCHOOL: Whittier Middle
EVENTS: Sentence Slam, Definition Deathmatch, Alliteration Arena
PEN: Crystal Bic (blk)
SPEED: 212 wpm
FAVORITE WORD: diphthong
SHORTEST SENTENCE: 1 word
LONGEST SENTENCE: 73 words
WORLD TITLES: 0
STORY TITLES: 1,651
GOAL: to improve 2 Live Crew’s lyrics
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter. People who have forgotten his name have called him Chief, Stretch, Sonny, Big Guy, Dude, Jonah, Leonard, Jimmy, Manny, Sebastian, Seth, Samson, Champ, and Keith’s Friend. Simon doesn’t care. Just don’t call him late for deadlines.
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter or a coder or something. I wasn’t really paying attention because he has this long nose hair that corkscrews from his left nostril like it’s escaping. He was blabbing nonsense about NYU while raising his whiskey glass to the skeeball machine, but all I could do was nod my head and stare at that nose hair. Nearly as thick as a chopstick. Another month without pruning and it could take over completely. Is anybody going to tell him? I certainly won’t. Surely he owns a mirror. Horrifying. Finish your drink and let’s get out of here. If I’m not home by eleven, Dad will fucking slaughter me.
SIMON GOETZ is that copywriter who showed up at your house party in Portland two years ago, took some pills, and fell asleep on your hammock. Then you woke him up when you were kicking everybody out and saw his Chainsaw Kittens shirt, and you realized that he’s from Oklahoma, just like you. And holy shit, you both know Calvin. Small world.
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter full of anger. His head is crimson and quaking. His knuckles are bleached. His chest heaves. His mouth is a C doing pushups. Don’t tell him to count to ten. He’s too livid to get past three. Sure, he’s the size of a Cub Scout, but everybody else near the deli meats better give him a wide berth. Make no mistake, Simon’s rage is justified. I mean, who runs out of beef hearts? These dicknecks. That’s who.
SIMON GOETZ is a freelance copywriter and he’s never been seen by any of his clients. Simon will not schedule face-to-face meetings or participate in video conference calls. People who have been able to get him on the phone claim that his voice changes timbre from one call to another. His Twitter avatar is a painting, and it hasn’t been changed since the account was opened in 2007. A quick reverse-image search reveals that his Facebook photos belong to a dentist in Fort Lauderdale named George Ebbings. George doesn’t know Simon, and has never been to Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, where Simon claims to live.
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter, but what he really wants to do is direct. Just kidding, he loves being a copywriter and it’s probably too late for a career change anyway. But you never know, you know? Tell you what. Send any promising scripts his way, just in case.
SIMON GOETZ is a freelance copywriter, and probably the only one wearing pants. You once read a headline he wrote for a car manufacturer. It made you chuckle. Two months later you bought an SUV from that car manufacturer. You had no need for a new vehicle, but you wanted it so badly and fuck anybody who doesn’t understand. You deserve it.
SIMON GOETZ will be the most famous copywriter in the future. It will happen overnight. After a long career struggling in the shadows of freelance syllable sucking, Simon will be taken hostage at a robot oil bar by an anti-andro cartel of breathers. They’ll be chipped up and drunk and ready to unplug some brobots. Before the men can delectrocute anyboty, Simon will write a poem. It’ll be your standard sonnet about the extrasolar soup a man makes for his family helpbot before she’s sent to the scrapper, but it will be so beautiful that his captors will hug everybody and turn themselves over to the authorities before any oil is spilled. One of the hostages that day will be the CEO of APEX, the first company to make teleportation affordable. He’ll hire Simon to write a tagline for his teleporter. “Be there in a sec” is what Simon will submit, and it’ll become a catchphrase that’s literally universal, and almost as ubiquitous as hoverbikes, laserphones, and lung condoms. Simon’s rate will be 4000 worldcreds an hour, and you’ll wish you had hired him earlier.
SIMON GOETZ is a copywriter, but he’s really into knives right now. Don’t worry, he’s keeping pretty quiet about it. He’s afraid of creeping out his friends, and he’s positive that if he starts talking blade length, his girlfriend will cut him. Truth is, it’s what’s on his mind. When he’s not chasing deadlines or hanging out with humans, he siphons information on forums that discuss things like steel compositions and food-grade mineral oil. Simon’s learning lots. He learned that you can sharpen some knives using that rough ring on the bottom of a ceramic coffee mug. He learned that Huck Finn carried a barlow, a folding knife pattern with a single gently sweeping carbon steel blade and a swollen wooden handle, the period’s obvious choice for utility and adventure. He learned that full tangs have nothing to do with astronauts, and that a blade in zero gravity is a bad idea. He learned that his tiny Case Peanut with amber jigged bone scales and chrome vanadium blades was manufactured mostly by mammoth machinery right here in the United States. He learned that even with quality control, Case puts out many knives with a bit of character. He learned that his particular Peanut has many accidental oddities. Its two small blades are both fostering respectable opalescent patinas, but the pen blade has some side-to-side wobble. He learned that the machine marks on the end caps catch your eye for only the first year or so. He learned that the sound and feel of the blades snapping closed like mini mousetraps is reassuring, but nobody knows why. He learned that the Peanut’s abilities to bisect an apple like butter, or gouge an eye like murder, are not hampered by these quirks. Of the many morsels Simon learned, he learned the most about himself. He learned that maybe his whole knife obsession comes from memories dyed golden by time. His father and grandfather, the two men he learned from most, used their own pocket lasers to whittle, cut cord, slice cheddar, and teach Simon about thoughtful actions. Simon’s still learning that it’s probably unwise to throw a large lump of his income into New York City rent, especially if he’s going to spend all his time on bladeforums.com.