Nothing of note ... just a theory

Is there a reason that I don't post nearly as often as I should?

Yeah, it's probably due to laziness. I'm sorry, I place Madden in front of my blog.

I promise it will never happen. Maybe. Let's not get too crazy.

I'm going to do it.

I'm going to write a novel. 50,000 words. One month.

National Novel Writing Month competition

I'm looking to update...

I'm on the hunt for a new look and new process for this blog. I'll keep you posted ... of course I will.

--gooch.

it's been far too long and I'm far too busy, but here goes another attempt at redemption

Greetings from another time ... or, how we all learned a valuable lesson

Nearly a month ago, I was back in Pittsburgh for a wedding. Above is a picture of the entire cast of friends after the reception was finished. I'm the bald guy towards the back.

My friends Greg and Corrie were, however, the second-best story on the day. The real story was Greg's brother Jeff — Greg's best man. In between the wedding and the reception word came in that Jeff, who had been on the liver transplant list for only a few days, had a new liver ready.

Needless to say, the wedding took a rather dramatic change from there.

If you'd like to see the video, check out the video or the story.

After the last 10 years of my life of not being an organ donor (not because I have a problem with it, but because I just never really did it), this has change my entire spectrum.

Upon renewal of my license, I most certainly will be an organ donor.

In case you were wondering ... but I'm almost certain that you are not

Penn State football: 3-0
Pittsburgh Steelers: 2-0
Gooch's fantasy teams: 7-1.

Pretty good month.

a promise is only as good as the person who gives it

I'll update this blog once a week.

—gooch.

it comes with little surprise that you would be surprised that I would leave you surprised

> I can't remember the last time I felt like writing. Plenty of reasons. Most of them personal. Some of them private. Most of them involve PlayStation.

> I've been wanting to talk about this for weeks, but couldn't figure out how. The movie "Old Boy" is, perhaps, without a doubt the creepiest/scariest/riveting/black movie I've ever seen. It's a Korean import (and they are remaking it into English -- which will ruin in) and has subtitles.

I'll put it this way: If you like the writing of Chuck Palahniuk, you'll love Old Boy. If you felt Requiem for a Dream was a love story or Happiness was just a comedy, then Old Boy is just right for you. When it's over, you kinda stare straight ahead for 2 hours unable to really talk about what that movie just did to you. The person who created this movie either needs an award or therapy. I can't decide which.

> Going to see The White Stripes tonight. Hot date with the wife. It's outside in the park, and should be lovely weather.

> Is it too late to recind my assertion that Terrell Owens is just misunderstood?

> I don't know about the rest of you, but I love getting spam on my blog. Means I'm important.

> Right now, I love being a Pittsburgh Penguin fan. They've basically gone from worst to playoff-contender in the blink of an eye. Of course, it has to happen after I left Pittsburgh. Just like the Steelers' Super Bowl run. And I'm stuck in a city that hates hockey, that has a horrible (maybe the worst I've ever seen -- and I'm a Pirates fan) baseball team and a football team I couldn't care less for.

> If you get a chance -- provided you liked Anchorman -- 40-year-old Virgin is really quite good. Especially the end.

> Maybe it's me, but I think Greg the Bunny was horribly misunderstood.

> My friend (and avid lapse of reason reader) Greg is getting married this weekend. I'm proud/happy/confused by this marriage. Proud cause two of my best friends found love. Happy because I like seeing Greg and Corrie happy. And confused, cause I could've sworn Greg told me once that he didn't believe in the institution of marriage.

> Speaking of Greg ... Sidney Crosby does have a magnificent lower body. Excellent thrust.

> Speaking of this wedding ... I bought my first suit this weekend. Gosh, when did this get so expensive?

> I'm sitting in a car dealership filled with women ... guess what we're watching? Good Morning America, and then the Tony Danza Show. Thank God for wireless internet connection and Slipknot.

> This isn't a promise: I probably won't got a month without posting again.

> This is a promise: I lied.

enjoy the moment.

Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated ... or at least partially inflated ... or maybe they weren't

I've been off the grid, the reservation and the loop for the past few weeks.

Moving will do that to you.

As I look at all the boxes, and see all of the mess, I wonder why I'm writing this.

Why am I wasting my time apologizing to theoretical readers?

-- g

There comes a time in every man's life when he bows down to God and thanks him for forcing him into a lifestyle he's not ready to accept just yet...

You're going to forget this story when I'm done telling it to you. It doesn't affect a single thing. It doesn't effect it either. You're going to feel less intelligent and you're going to feel cheated. You're going to say: "I knew Gooch was an idiot." You're going to say: "Duh?"

I just want to warn you. So, you're going to want to forget this happened. I guarantee it.



This is how our first day in our new house started:

So, if you know me, you know that I'm pretty good with stress. Not great. But good.

You know that I'm all right with tension. Again, not great, good.

You know full well that I don't deal with embarrassment at all.

And so, that's where this story starts.

Tracy and I had just finished doing the most grown up thing we've ever done in closing on our own house. And we were standing in our house — Tracy cleaning the refrigerator and me fooling around with the light switches.

And the security alarm.

And then I pushed F1.

And then. And then. Well what?

Well, of course, the alarm went off.

And it was loud. Really, really, really loud.

So I panicked.

"Oh, God. The cops are going to come. We're not supposed to be here yet." "What will the neighbors think?" "I can't believe I just did that." "The cops are going to come and we're going to have to explain that we are here a day early." "Christ, the neighbors are going to think I'm an idiot."

This is what's going through my head. Not: "How do I turn this off?" You know, the logical thing. No, I'm this nerotic idiot worrying about what the neighbors are going to think of us now. I'm the one who set it off. I'm the dork who pushed the button.

And, now, I guess, I'm the one beating myself up for something insignificant that happened about 6 days ago.

But, then again, I dare you to find someone in this world who can make more out of a 3-minute conversation than I can.

Anyway, I'm lucky to have Tracy. Very. Lucky.

Because Tracy stayed unflappable — like always. (Interesting side note about my wife, she's so great sometimes, I have to stop and think: "Why me?" I mean, I don't really know what she sees in me, but I'm really glad she does.)

She called the cops. She called the security company. She told me if I didn't stop freaking out, she'd leave the alarm on.

I paced through the empty kitchen chewing off the end of my left middle finger. Pacing so hard, I almost couldn't hear the alarm anymore. I was coming up with excuses. And, I shouldn't be telling you this, but I was coming with the story I was going to tell my friends.

"Yeah, so, that alarm system, it sure works huh?" And, you know, casually embellish upon it like always.

Well, bullocks to that.

I decided to actually do something.

And that's when I found the main breaker in the house. And, wham, silence.

Sweet, sweet silence.

And then, wham, I hit the breaker again.

Loud alarm.

Wham. Off. No alarm. Then, we flipped everything off and turned them on one by one.

Finally, having located the right switch, we were able to fully disconnect the alarm.

And silence was upon us again.

And we were able to sleep — in our first home on an air mattress after Tracy painted until 3:30 a.m. and I watched until 2:45 a.m.

That was until the alarm starting going off again. This time a quieter, more subdued beeping from the wall unit.

How do you stop this one? It's battery operated. A breaker won't fix this.

I reached for the hammer.

Sadly, it wasn't at the house yet.

So, we did the next best thing: pried that damned thing off the wall.

Tracy, unflappable as she may be at times, was right there egging me on. "Pry it harder." "Try to pull it all the way off." "No, slip it underneath and push."

And, come to think of it, those all sounded vaguely sexual.

There was no booklet for this alarm system — so maybe it hangs there as a reminder of the day I nearly went batty worrying about what people I hadn't met thought of me the day Tracy and I did the coolest thing we've ever done. But, as it turns out, the previous owner, she, um, forgot to leave it.

Off the wall it sits, silent and respectful. Pried. Blasted. Hammered. Nailed. Screwed. Lubed.

Come to think of it, that all sounds vaguely sexual.

Forget we had this conversation.