Happy Birthday, Greg Moore

Greg is a good friend. He helped me get the goochonline.net network up and running, he's given me cooking advice, been my designated driver, and let me crash at his place when I've drank too much. He's a talented musician, music producer, network engineer, photographer, videographer, cook, drinking buddy... and a good friend.

Greg's website: The Domino Effect

Greg Moore a.k.a. G-Mo, a.k.a. Gregster

I went to four (4) stores last night in an effort to buy the movie Scarface. Four... and not one God damned retailer carried it. Fred Meyer (Kroger) didn't carry it. Circuit City didn't have it. The Wherehouse carries a good selection of porn, but I couldn't buy a copy of Scarface. Best Buy said they don't have it and don't have any on order, despite getting numerous requests a day for it.

You fucking assholes. All of you should line up so I can tea-bag you. I don't want to live in a world where someone can't go out and buy Scarface. I think the lack of availability for such a classic film can be attributed to the fact that Fred Meyer, Circuit Shitty, Whorehouse, and Best Try all HATE CUBANS AND ANYTHING THAT MIGHT PAINT CUBANS IN A POSITIVE OR GLORIFIED LIGHT.

You can buy every crappy Adam Sandler movie ever made, but a movie nominated for three Golden Globes can't be found anywhere. Scarface is actually harder to find than an employee to help you at the shitty, punkass stores listed above.

In this country, you gotta make the money first. Then when you get the money, you get the power. Then when you get the power, then you get the women. But no matter how much money, power, and women you have; you still can't find a fucking copy of Scarface in a store in Portland.

Without any real structure in my life, I've found that putting together a list of things to do, or a schedule, greatly improves my efficiency. It's not easy entering early retirement at 28. There's sweater suits to buy and episodes of Matlock to watch. Unfortunately, my pile of dead presidents won't stack itself.

...And repeat. It's a shallow, meaningless existence. However, it's my existence and I sorta dig it.

Where's my pants...

We've got rain now, but this weekend was beautiful. I went for a walk downtown with a girl, drank beer on a restaurant patio with the same girl. Cleaned my barbecue and barbecued myself some lunch outside. Normally, I would seldom make note of the weather, but when I'm able to stand on my patio and smell the sweet smell of meat cooking over propane, it's an indescribable good feeling that even I can't even put it into words. I'm going to make this spring/summer the best ever. I'm going to barbecue every day and never say no to an invitation to someone else's barbecue. I'm gonna do stuff. I'm gonna have sex with multiple anonymous partners. Some at the same time. I'm going to drink incessantly. I'm going to look for a job. Just kidding. I'm going to learn how to smoke cigarettes. I'm going to siphon gas from my neighbor's car ("excuse me sir, do you put premium gas in your car? Just curious."). I'm going to host a lingerie party at my house and only let the beautiful people waiting outside my door in, Studio 54 style. I'm going to put a brass pole in my living room. I'm going to borrow a friend's car and speed past photo radars around town, smiling and flipping off the cameras. I'm going to run with scissors. I'm going to put a bug zapper outside and stare at it for four-hours straight. I'm going to work as a bouncer and randomly deny people admission to the bar/club.

I'M SORRY, I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO ALLOW GIRLS UNDER 120 POUNDS INTO THE BAR. IT'S BAR POLICY.
I COULD LET YOU TALK TO THE MANAGER, BUT I'D HAVE TO LET YOU IN, WHICH WOULD VIOLATE POLICY.

Oh, man. That "sex with your clone..." line was actually already written by me on Tuesday, May 14, 2002. Check the Archives, it's there. I had a funny feeling that I had already written that and I did a search. I'm rewriting my own, old jokes. I'm tapped for humor; that was it. I'm done. I'll be writing drama and poetry from here on out. It was fun while it lasted.

Thanks to everyone that bid on my two ebay items I put up earlier. I'm going to use the cash to do something that I've always wanted to do.

Pay for sex.

Why should restaurants, jewelers, and leather boutiques get the cash in my efforts to bury a bone? Dating is too complicated, anyways. Two girls so far in my quest for a Goochette have intimated to me after weeks of hanging out that they have boyfriends or something similar to that effect. With every door that closes, another one opens and hits me in the balls with the door knob.

I AM HERE; YOU ARE THERE.

Hi, my name is John. How are you today?

If you have sex with your clone, is it considered masturbation?

Jury duty blew ass. Haven't seen a case yet, but I've read a lot of magazines and avoided eye contact with a lot of people. Gotta do it tomorrow. Great!