I went from my house to an office where I do work, to the Fry's here in Oregon, to my place of former employment in Lake Oswego, to Meier and Frank for some clothes shopping. I did all of this with a pair of mismatched Adidas. One shoe was a plain white Stan Smith, the other a clam-shell toed, three blue-striped shoe. I stood in the dressing room as though I was trapped... I was going to bee-line back to the car and come back tomorrow to resume shopping. That was too inefficient, even for me. As YMike and I discussed this afternoon, I either started a trend and little kids are going to start asking their parents for mismatched shoes, or people all day thought I was a fucking 'tard.

I bought a couple more silk shirts, bringing my total to three. r, Dry cleaners should sell silk shirts for $5 then have you sign a cleaning contract agreement where you agree that the seller of the shirt is the only one that can clean it. It's like the razor/blade marketing concept. I've almost thrown a shirt away rather than take it to the dry-cleaners. It's like they're disposable.

Oh, 25,000 hits. Six hundred eighty-two posts. I'll summarize them all in one paragraph: I'm drunk and I'm in college; I'm drunk and I've got a job; I'm drunk and I'm single; I'm drunk and I'm unemployed; I'm drunk and I've got a new girlfriend; I'm drunk and I'm taking Xanax/Viagra, hot tubbing with naked chicks; I'm drunk and I'm self-employed.

Time to go out, where's my silk shirt...

I fell asleep at 9:30pm, woke up at 11pm. At 2am, after three episodes of taped Curb Your Enthusiasm episodes, I resigned to the fact that I was not going back to sleep and I went grocery shopping at the WinnCo. I spent an hour at the grocery store and I'm not sure, but I think the graveyard crew is kept chained in a basement when they're not working. Bread and water is probably thrown to them through slots in their doors. Otherwise the flourescent bulbs that illuminate their box cutting, throwing, and aisle blocking is the only light they receive. Fuck, the garbage men are early... gotta go.

GOOCH: 6AM. PORK QUESADILLA'S CONSUMED SEVEN HOURS EARLIER BROUGHT ON THE SCARIEST OF THE SCARY NIGHTMARES. THE BEST PART OF WAKING UP PREMATURELY IS KNOWING I'VE PROVIDED A FRESH BLOG FOR YOU BORED SECRETARIES, EX-GIRLFRIENDS, FUTURE EX-GIRLFRIENDS, PRIESTS, PARENTS, AND THE FELLOW UNEMPLOYED.

Currently in queued in my Windows Media Player: Gordon Lightfoot: Sundown, Gordon Lightfoot: If You Could Read My Mind, Beastie Boys: Ch-Check it Out, Van Halen: Panama, System of a Down: Sugar, Slipknot: Spit it Out, Chicago: If You Leave Me Now, Perfect in Plastic: How Deep is Your Love, Perfect in Plastic: Gold Digger, Beastie Boys: Looking Down the Barrel of a Gun...

If you drive by my condo's [open] office window at this very moment, you'll hear System of a Down's Sugar and see beer neons glowing purple and pink, visible from the outside. I have a day-care located 50 yards from my back door.

CINCO DE DRUNKO: A RECEIPT FROM MY CINCO DE MAYO THIS YEAR. I HAD A FRIEND COME OVER TO THE CONDO SO SHE COULD WATCH ME DO SOME PRE-FUNC TEQUILA SHOTS. FROM THERE WE WENT TO A BAR CALLED STANDING ROOM ONLY (SRO) WHERE I BECAME THE LIFE OF THE PARTY BY LOOKING AT THINGS (OR PEOPLE) TO LEAN ON, SLURRING MY WORDS, AND SOMEHOW REMEMBERING TO SIGN MY CREDIT CARD RECEIPT. IT LOOKS PRETTY NORMAL, WITH THE EXCEPTION OF THE "0" IN THE TIP SECTION. [source: goochonline.com archives]

Went to a Tupperware party last night. Margaritas were served as the girls and I sat and looked at the veritable cornucopia of plastic, burpable, one-touch-closeable wares. Am I simply comfortable with my masculinity, or a raging fag? Ask my manicurist.

I've been asked to retire my catch phrase: "I'm Gooch, bitch" which you could hear me utter ad-nauseaum after, maybe, two drinks of beer. I, of course, stole this from Dave Chappelle's "Rick James" skit. It's so hard coming up with a catch phrase. I mean, if you're the star of a blaxploitation film from the seventies? No problem. If you're a white guy from Laurelhurst, it's pretty difficult.

IF JOHN BELUSHI AND DR. LAURA HAD A KID, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN ME. DIDN'T THINK I GAVE A SHIT, DID YOU? I'M COMPLEX, BITCH. THIS IS FROM ABOUT THREE YEARS AGO. [source: under ex-girlfriend's refrigerator magnet]

Birthdays this week: My hero David L. (whose birthday party I regrettably missed), Kay, Nikki, and Emily. I feel like Ramblin' Rod right now, except a little less alive.

Two per cent of the population will get that last, obscure reference. I feel like Dennis Miller right now.

Last night I stayed up late playing poker with Tarot cards. I got a full house and four people died. Steven Wright.

I spent 1/24th of my day on this blog. Going back to bed for another hour or so. The mood is better than when I started. Gooch:OUT

Coming up on 25000 hits. sweet. The Beastie Boys' To the Five Boroughs CD and Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm: Season Two both come out on June 15th. I won't leave the house all day once I pick those up.

I steady mobbed from Roadhouse in Gresham to Old Chicago in Clackamas to a house party in Oregon City to another house in Oregon City where a splinter group bolted from the previous party once the homeowner brandished a firearm to an apartment in Clackamas where I ultimately crashed at 6am. Before a Glock was presented at Oregon City house #1, I used their kickass shot dispenser. It's a stand that holds four bottles of liquor and dispenses shots:

I should have stolen the fucking thing as we exodussed out of that crib. Yo. I had four hours sleep the night before and my can of Rock Star kept me from exhaustion. The shot machine gave me a convenient way to add a shot of vodka to my can. The brain is shut down but the body is awake. My brain is still fried; three hours sleep this morning, gonna try to get a nap in and maybe my writing will be more coherent.