Happy Shalloween...

gremlins and gremlets:

I missed Halloween this year. Except for one Werthers and Snickers bender, I didn't do anything Halloweenesque. I didn't drink, didn't dress up, didn't ogle chicks dressed like the whores they wish they could dress like the other 365 days a year (fuck you... every year should be a leap year). I didn't hand out candy (I ate it like the fat fuck I am). I didn't watch a scary movie (I was going to watch the Kathy Bates/Jack Nicholson hot tub scene over and over again to get in the spirit, but I forgot which movie included that morsel of boner-be-gone).

Ogle, I believe, is Latin for "eye-fuck."

You're welcome.

Tune in next time when I go into a mall and wonder out loud about how the stores are putting Christmas decorations up earlier and earlier every year.

out

Shit that Pops into My Head

Whenever I'm at a restaurant, in my dojo, or on a bus, I wonder if attractive girls that I exchange glances with is thinking:

a: She wants me
b: I remind her of her Father.

Or, if she's a stripper:

c: All of the above.

Happy Halloween, shitheads.

goochout.

Rebel Without Applause

Stormtroopers:

 

I wish I'd thought of some shit like that Death Star Blowing Up Alderaan pumpkin carving genius (see above). I went to a friend's house high on four cups of "Hair Bender" coffee and carved a pumpkin that makes Corky look like a MENSA candidate.

 

Where did I get all of the "makes your piss smell like a Starbucks" strength coffee? I was at a wedding reception. Prior to the reception I sat in my car, too anxious to go in. Social anxiety had reared its ugly head. Once inside I needed something to drink and since I don't hit the sauce, coffee was my next option. Because yeah, when you're nervous, a shit ton full of coffee is just what the doctor ordered. If your doctor is Kevorkian.

 

The reception: A beautiful reminder that love is possible, that I hate going to things by myself (but always do), and that I always err on the side of casual when deciding how I should dress for an event. I seem to bring business casual to formal dinners wherever I go.

 

I buddied up with a girl who also showed up solo to the event. We seemed to be able to talk forever. Partly because we got along and partly because we were relieved at not having to stand around by ourselves. People assumed we'd showed up together and might even be in a relationship somehow. Such a social connection, such a bond forged in such a short amount of time. We went over to a table together to visit with some mutual friends. I excused myself to the restroom and when I came back she'd pretty much bolted from the party.

 

Most of my social interactions are awkward, it would seem. 

 

Anyways, after the party I went to carve pumpkins and quickly churned out the most retarded looking pumpkin ever. Then I went home and woke up with a coffee hangover. Then I watched the UFC fights that I'd downloaded the night before.

 

End Brain Dump: Now

 

goochout

 

 

Weakend Edition

Crustaceans:

 

I've been aggressive in my effort to desensitize my desensitization, not drink, be more positive/less cynical, get healthy, and essentially drag the needle over the spinning record that is this website.

 

It's hard to write about being a designated driver. It's hard to describe the situations that come from no longer self medicating my social-phobia. Or, I should say, the lack of situations that come from no longer self medicating my social-phobia. Writing about your own drunken escapades is so much easier that writing about observing others' antics.

 

MMA classes, the extra fitness endeavor financed by my extinct bar tabs, are interesting. Having your head and shoulder pinned between a dude's legs and giving him adjustment pointers until you start losing consciousness from lack of blood to your brain ("okay, push the top of my head over so that the sharp part of my shoulder goes into my carotid artereeeee... [tap tap]) is certainly an interesting hobby. I have a lot of appreciation now for those UFC fights and the skill/endurance that goes into it. At age 36 I've also, I believe, finally learned how to throw a punch. Who knew that you were supposed to make a fist first? Not me.

 

Off to lunch. Have a good weekend.

 

goochout

 

 

Waiting to Exhale

Goochalos:

I bought one of those e-cigarettes Friday after work. I don't smoke, although I've tried to start many times. I'm just fascinated by the fact that an electronic alternative to smoking has not only been invented (they've been around a while, my friend Mike Henry has been "vaping" for a while now) but is available at convenience stores for under $20. You inhale on the hard plastic simulated cigarette and the end glows red - brighter depending on the velocity of your "drag." In the course of this process, an element heats up and liquid nicotine is vaporized and that is what you inhale. Should the simulated lit end start to flash, you unscrew the cigarette from the nicotine cartridge end and screw it into a USB adapter to charge. It's fucking genius.

http://www.xhaleo2.com/

In other news, I feel myself getting sick. The stuffed head, the fatigue, headaches, dizziness. I don't like being sick and missing work is an option for people with compensated sick time. I'm getting pissy about this because I'm missing workouts and I need to get into some sort of shape. Usually, if I rest, I don't get full blown AIDS and squeak by with just a cold.

Honestly, I'm just waiting for my torrents to download. Pirated Dexter and Boardwalk Empire episodes are trickling over my internet pipes. I'll probably pass out before they hit the media server. I guess it's one reason for me to wake up. Finally, a reason to wake up. [starts to weep, takes a cigarette and tries to burn himself in a self mutilating/masochistic endeavor with it but realizes that it's a fake electronic cigarette and says "duh, I just wrote about this thing" then turns around and crawls into bed.]

goochout

The Reno Column: Recycled

Since I'm in Reno, I thought I'd write something. Since I'm down here with my Father and not drinking, my best chance at a decent story is if I hit a jackpot. Or a hooker. Otherwise, here's an 11 year old piece of writing. Damn, I'm getting old.

The Reno Column (1999)

gooch:out

I Like the White Girls that the Black Guys Like.

DHCP Clients:

 

Not drinking for two months has made me A: Very self conscious about my weight and B: alarmed at the diminuative size of my arms. These are odd things to focus on, especially for a super hero like myself. However, this is what my non-chemical soaked brain has led me to worry about. Alcohol told me that I was "big boned" and that my arms were big. Alcohol lied. Alcohol always lies. I should consider myself lucky: Alcohol has never told me that some dude was actually a chick.

 

The confidence... God, do I miss the self confidence. And the Charisma. I seem to command more of an audience when I'm drunk. When I'm sober, I've only a few seconds of getting a thought out before my friends start talking to each other about something else. This is why I'm good at Twitter: I've been forced to reduce my communications down to 140 characters in real life for most of my adult life.

 

But back to the physical deficiencies. These issues should be solved eventually as the lack of hangovers has allowed me to not miss so many workouts at the gym. I've also joined a MMA training program. It's the stuff that you see in UFC fights, but I don't kick or hit actual people, just the pads that people are holding. So if I'm walking down a dark alley and an Everlast punching bag tries to take my wallet; I'm pretty sure I'm safe from the forces of foam padded evil.

 

Peace.

 

goochout.