Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Happy Kwanzaa or, as my Arab friends call it... Saturday.

I glided through a peaceful Christmas filled with friends and family. I wanted to go out tonight but decided, rather, to wash down some Tylenol PM with some Pepsi Max and let the caffeine/sedative mixture battle it out within my gut. Haven't had a drink in five months this Monday. Feels good. I haven't watched the food intake too much because food gives me the only ingestible pleasure I allow myself and I naturally don't eat as much since drinking hasn't caused me to do any late night food benders of 7-11 hot dogs, Burger King triple whoppers, or the entire left side of the Taco Bell drive through menu. "Empanada? What the fuck is that? I'll take five of 'em."

I think I'll actually pay attention to the diet. Leaner meats, no dessert with breakfast, small changes. I think January will see my return to a gym and/or organized exercise.

However, now I sit. I intend on doing nothing tonight. Rather I'm watching network television and making a list of grocery shopping and chores to do. Sort of a "honey do" list for a guy that lives by himself with a cat. Tomorrow I'll wake up and try to get shit done. Some people think I procrastinate but really I'm pulling back the string on a bow with the arrow being my productivity. That's what four straight hours of Netflix is. Me getting ready to get accomplish tasks.

Alright, get back to ignoring your families. Merry Christmas.

goochout.

Strange Brew

Working on a piece of writing longer that four paragraphs. Once again, it's hard for me to wrap my head around the editing. From the cutting room floor:

I referred to the payment a man would receive for anonymously fathering children for unwed women as an "emission commission." 

Find a typographical error in a manuscript prior to publication and you're considered a hero. Find a typographical error in a freshly published and distributed book and you're considered a smart ass.

Off to work after I clean the litterbox. You know, as if this blog didn't satisfy my shit-sifting quota for the day.

peach out.

Gooch.

[Trivia: "Strange Brew has nothing to do with anything, other than it's the song that was playing on the radio as I typed it. "Peach out" was an odd typo that I chose to leave in]

The Magical Douchetery Tour

As a gift of thanks from the couple whose wedding I performed last weekend, I was given the following:

Four 16oz cans of assorted Rockstar Energy Drinks

A Gift Card

A Book: Chuck Klosterman's "IV"

I had indicated to the couple prior to their wedding that I don't read. I mean, I can read. I can read almost anything. Speed signs and nutrition labels are a bit hazy, but other than that I'm a functional reader. The phenomenon of my enormously lopsided writing to reading ratio led me to ponder the possibility of someone able to write but not read. Those types of thoughts keep by mind busy long enough to allow me to fall asleep.

The book was perfect. I'm touched by the thoughtfulness of getting me a book chosen due to my fascination with pop culture and my short attention span. This book appeals to both of my cultural shortcomings. Chuck Klosterman has written for a bunch of different magazines. That's all I know, I haven't googled him yet.

My next essay or book will begin with the following:

"I don't like it when writers open with a spoken quotation," I said to myself, pondering the cliched pretentiousness of the technique.

I just finished my morning Rockstar (provided via the above mentioned gift package) and I want another. That's what Rockstar does: It makes you want more. It's like cocaine but cheaper and sans bad conversation. Maybe not sans bad blogging. Whatever.

I'm so pumped that Howard Stern signed for another five years. I don't listen to terrestrial radio. I listen to satellite radio in my car and now on my Android (HTC Evo) phone. His new contract allows for his channels to be broadcast to devices starting January 1st. This means I can listen to him all day. Or at least for the 20 minutes that my fully charged HTC Evo would let me before the battery dies.

the bigger the headache, the bigger the pillin'.

was going to do a wedding today up on rocky butte in what was expected to be a torrential downpour. the wedding was moved into the couples' apartment. this is good, because the thought of wearing my new suit in the rain before my 'dj' gig tonight did not enthuse me. I would have worn a full clear plastic parka/pant set to keep dry. i would have looked like an Italian family's couch.

off to marry some people.

goochout.

At the 11:11/Steppin' to the AM/Express Yourself

[Dr. Dre:]

Yo, man... There's a lot of brothers out there flakin' and perpetratin

But scared to kick reality.

[Ice Cube:]

Man, you've been doing all this dope producing.

You had a chance to show 'em what time it is...

[Dr. Dre:]

So, what you want me to do?

I'm working simultaneously on putting together music for an upcoming DJ gig (pretty much pushing 'play' on my equipment and letting it ride) and finishing up vows for a wedding. Both events are happening on the same day. This will be wedding number 7 in my officiating career.

I've broken the sixth wall. It's like the fourth wall, but a randomly pulled number of wall simply to explain that I've exposed the website to my Facebook profile. I felt that the bus blog was mainstream appealing enough to put it out there. The "laughing guy" made me feel something. I think you people call it "empathy" and "compassion." I won't bother looking those words up on wikipedia. I think being a pussy for the last couple of months has enabled me to develop... feelings.

Having said that, the video would have been funnier if I just started telling jokes so that the man appeared to be laughing at my material. Maybe my act of compassion would have been to make the man seem normal by giving him an excuse for laughing. Shit, I'm a humanifuckingtarian.

It's 6:53am as I write this. I've googled how to deal with my puffy eyes, pirated a shit ton of music, listened to Howard Stern, and wondered where my next meal will come from. I haven't grocery shopped in a while. I'm hungry, yet... I don't look hungry.

Ease back, white bitch. I don't play that.

goochout

I'm on a bus.

Sometimes I ride mass transit. Not a lot of people know this, but in the course of my goings on as a non drinking, book reading, celibate, rose smelling, midlife crises having mothereffer, I sometimes enjoy sitting on the bus for a relaxing hour or so commute to an office or jobsite in the morning.

Normally, these trips are in fact relaxing and uneventful, you know, like mass transit should be. Today, however, was a clusterfuck of epic proportions. Maybe not "epic," but certainly noteworthy.



My delay/shitty start to the day was tempered by the fact that it wouldn't be as bad as this ladies' day.



100 blocks after the crash: Man who wouldn't shut his mouth, off the bus and talking to the cops. He was already late to meet with his parole officer (he'd mentioned that during his rants agains the woman). Asshole.

On the ride into town, our bus stopped. Suddenly, a slam against the back of the bus lurched us forward. We'd been rear ended. After the bus driver completed routine post-accident measures, I walked outside and checked it out. Some lady crashed her van into the bus. How the hell do you hit a parked bus? Fire engines, ambulances, cops, and significant delay were soon to follow. The next bus, packed with its usual riders and delayed by the traffic jam from our bus' incident, arrived. We were seated and made it about 100 blocks before an argument broke out.

It was two unstoppable forces: A black 20-year-old woman and a gay black man. Call me racist, sexist, whatever you want. You know I'm right. It was an unstoppable bitch meets an inanimate shithead (the names could be applied to either of the participants). She yelled at him for sitting too close, he yelled at her for insulting him. Neither one would move or shut the fuck up (despite other riders' repeated requests) until the cops showed up. Most of us on the bus were already 30 minutes delayed already. My fellow riders started yelling at the two that were already yelling. Lots of yelling. Bus stopped, cops arrived. Ultimately, I arrived at my destination an hour late.  

On the way home, on the MAX, a rider boarded. He commenced with a giggling fit that lasted the entire 30 minutes he rode the train. I feel bad posting this because he probably had tourettes. Or some shit. However, I'll pretend that he was drug addicted or something. There, I feel better.



On a side note, if I ever did stand up I'd give this guy free passes for life. I mean, he's a comedian's wet dream. Again, it's not nice to make fun of someone's affliction. It's okay to make fun of someone's addiction.

This is the word the Gooch.

Thanks be to Gallucci.*

Tri Met: See Where it Takes You... indeed.
goochout


*I'm going to hell.

gooch: the podcast #6 [repost]

[By request, and because the 'search' function on Blogger is, shall we say, fucked? (spoiler alert: yes, we shall): Here's a repost of the #6 podcast.]

Gooch plays three separate clips of his drunken phone calls/audio posts. Included are: Drunken morning after voice mail from Vegas, the morning after the Wedding in Silverton, Oregon, and the "Cunnilingus Interview" involving two strippers in a strip club dressing room.