Don't forget to request Chapter II (see blog below). I got a preowned Treo 600 and it's got a shitty camera built in. That hasn't kept me from taking pictures with it. Sweet!

Me and Nikki 12.29.05 at a Shari's at 3am.

Chapter 2 of the strip club DJ saga is too graphic for me to risk a family member getting a hold of it. Email me: gooch@goochonline.com and I'll send it to you in an email.

Question: Have you ever gone to a McDonald's drive-through, ordered a meal and gotten an extra cheeseburger for in the car so you wouldn't have to wait to get home to eat? You haven't? God, I'm a fat fuck.

I CANNOT DRINK AT NIGHT AND FALL ASLEEP FORGETTING TO TAKE MY FUCKING PILLS. I'm actually shaking with some full on depression that I keep telling myself is for no reason. I used the emotion, complete with tears, to finish the second strip club DJ chapter.

I did a toast last night to the two ex girlfriends that I don't talk to anymore: Cheryl and Meggan. Best wishes to you both.

STRIP CLUB DJ: CHAPTER ONE

I really liked a girl from September through November this year. We dated a little bit, both of us acknowledged that we weren't ready to date anyone including each other and gracefully slipped into the Friend Zone.

During that courtship, an opportunity arose to attend my friend Ryan's birthday party. These parties have been and continue to be limousined tours of strip clubs in Portland complemented by a steady intake of alcohol. Because the girl mentioned in the last paragraph hates strip clubs with somewhat of an indescribable passion, I declined the party invitation.

So, along comes December 1st. Traffic snarls caused me to exit the freeway onto Division street. I drove by a bar for whom the friend mentioned in the last paragraph works. I called to verify that he was in fact working at that moment and drove to Montego's; a strip club in southeast Portland.

I say hi to my friend, Ryan, and wish him a belated happy birthday. The bar was dark and empty with the exception of two strippers casually walking around the stage. I start to drink while Ryan and I bullshit about people we have collectively grown to know during the 25 years we've been friends. After an hour at the bar I notice the DJ booth and ask Ryan if I can play and announce songs for the two girls since a lone customer had made his way up to the "rack," or the stage where the dancers perform.

"These girls work for your tips and your tips alone!"

The DJ booth had the traditional dual CD arrangement with a mixing board. It also sported a computer with an enormous library of music. Using Windows Media Player, the DJ can queue up songs in advance and let the girls dance to them and simply announce the dancers' names and remind the customers to tip everyone. I grab the microphone and start throwing out the traditional lines and cheesy DJ voice I've heard strip club DJs use. "These girls work for your tips and your tips alone!" "The girls only strip for your tips... no greenery no scenery!" Etcetera, etcetera.

Apparently my over the top parody of every strip club DJ I've ever heard for the last 12 years sounded, well, like a real DJ. Ryan asked me if I'd like to work Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings. I said I'd have to think about it. The negative social stigma of such an occupation. Who would want to date someone that works in a strip club? I didn't need the money. It would be a fun job, especially if I got to work with Ryan, my childhood friend since the age of 6. I contemplated the decision over my fourth Jack and diet Coke when I noticed the CD players both had some setting in place where the display read "REMAIN SINGLE." Someone who knows anything about CD DJ systems knows what that means. I have no fucking idea. I did however take it as a sign that I should quit trying to date girls, in fact remain single, and work at this club.

NEXT INSTALLMENT: THE UNFORESEEN ALLURE OF THE STRIP CLUB DJ.

CNN.com - Short glasses hold stronger drinks, study says - Dec 23, 2005

I'm about to enter into a diabetic induced coma from all of the See's candy I've eaten in the office in which I'm working. It's been a day. It's funny being downtown. Between pollsters, panhandlers, soapbox ministers, Salvation Army people, etc... I've never been approached by so many people that I really have no interest in talking to. You are never alone in Downtown Portland and sure as fuck never without someone willing to talk to you.

I'm missing electrolytes or something right now. Don't feel good. Depressed... guilty... something. Ugh. Need to finish Christmas shopping. Can't believe how busy I am. I have money but no time to spend it. It's like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife. That last blog should have said "quit" not "quite" in regards to my strip club career. I don't know... strippers have an expiration date when it comes to actually dealing with them. And thus, the milk has in fact gone bad.

#1: I'm going on razor strike starting today. Fuck shaving.

#2: I think I quite the strip club DJ thing last night. Last week I screwed a stripper. What more do I want? "Gooch," you ask... "two strippers?" No. My life need not be so shallow.

#3: I'm doing work for a Catholic radio station. Seriously making me think about church.

#4: A non-stripper had her feelings hurt when she came to visit me at the strip club last night and found out a dated one of the dancers. I'm not a feeling hurter by nature. Bummed me out.

#5: My ex girlfriend called me for the first time in a week and of course I'm drunk and of course we fight. For Christmas I want her and I to do something fun together and not fight. Seriously. I also want my Ex Cheryl to talk to me again. I guess they're exes for a reason, but goddammit they somehow added balance to my universe.

#6: I've been diagnosed with social anxiety disorder, general anxiety disorder, and I'm sure something else... yet I'm constantly putting myself in public places where I'm the center of attention. Fuck the DSM-IV.

#7: I've never been so driven as I am now. I love working. I don't break for anything like I used to. Focused... even my lunches are 110%. Eye of the Tiger. Cock of the walk. Whatever.

#8: I'm going to stay single until 2006! I'm almost there! Fucking Yay!

#9: I need a nap and I just woke up.

#10: Jon Bon Jovi: No one under the age of 30 cares about you, so quit putting 20-something extras in your video crowd. I'm not buying it and I'm sure no one else is either.

Have a nice day... indeed.

goochout.

God dammit... woke up hungover but in a good mood. It just feels like one of those days and it's not a manic episode making me say that. Last night was good times at the club. Got to work with my childhood friend Ryan, which is always fun. When we were kids, people used to tease us saying "You two will never work in a strip club together." In 2005 we proved them all wrong.

Listened to Howard Stern's final terrestrial broadcast today. Can't wait for that stock to blow up. It's going to skyrocket... right?

DJing at a strip club is fun. Not just because there's so many easily accessible blow jobs in such a place; rather because I get to hang out with my childhood friend Ryan. Friends come in and visit me and they get to hear me rattle off "These girls work for tips and tips alone" a million different ways. They drink cheap and everyone calls it a night. I've been fondled by enough strippers that I'm pretty sure the experience of a casual visit to a strip club in general has been ruined for me.

Otherwise, I lack a lot of sleep, which I plan on catching up tonight. I'm taking my various pills and plan on slipping into something just this side of a fucking coma.

Perfect in Plastic is back? I just heard it myself. More to follow.

Word. GoochOUT!

I'm so tired. Just got over my hangover from Tuesday and I'm DJing tonight, which involves half a fifth of anything just to get me through it. I'm told I'm good at it, although I'm not sure where on the social-economic stratosphere that places me. Porn store janitors and strip club DJs. That's the playing field. I could fall asleep right now and I have to work until 2:15am tonight. I'll have a Red Bull, please.

goochout

My life as a strip club DJ. Last night started off awkward but ended as a rousing, awesome, Jack Daniels soaked success. Strippers got mad that I wasn't touching them. I played the music I wanted to. All my friends showed up. It was the most fun I've had at a strip club in a long time.

And they paid me.

These girls work for tips and tips alone. How many times and different ways can you say that during the course of an evening? Fucking plenty. Now I have to go buy my Grandmother a birthday gift with stripper money.

Return of the Gooch.

In a stunning turn of events, a visit to my friend who works in a strip club culminated into a guest DJing gig at Montegos on 162nd and Division in Portland, OR. I initially hesitated at the offer. Hesitation was merely leftover restrictions from having a girlfriend or a 9 to 5 job.

"Shit... I'll DJ your club." And I was off playing all the shit I wanted to. Zombie. Van Halen. Marilyn Manson. Fuck yeah! Strippers were giving me money for a change... one asked me for my phone number. And I gave it to her.

So this Sunday, I'll be working there. Check back on this site for any changes/cancellations.

DJ Gooch. out.

It's Wednesday morning. Did the books, took out the trash, had a somewhat inspired workout, thinking about combing my hair, making a bank deposit, chilling at Taco House with Cheryl for a bit. My gym is buying newer, better tanning beds so I'm holding off on using my package until they get installed. That's smart economics, bitches. Nextel beep to Marty: no answer. Fuck, I gotta get out of this office. I need to clean this office. Basic cable doesn't offer me enough distractions... I need digital cable with On-Demand. My eyes are shifty today. Doctor's appointment today at 3pm. Can't forget that! Love needles in my arms. God... I'm still bruised from two weeks ago. Is my hair combed yet? No. Gotta do that. Oh, shit... gotta pay the Comcast bill. They're scheduled to shut off any time now. There's my inspiration to get out of the house.

I'm rollin'

goochout

House Arrest. Yo.

I'm staying in all week. I'm going to act like I've got a Martha Stewart ankle bracelet and only go to and from work and to the gym. There's too many ways to get in trouble and I've filled my quota for the week.

So what do I do? Sit on the couch, Nextel my friends, try to catch as many Family Guy and South Park episodes as I can before my psychotropic prescriptions and my glass of wine put me to sleep on my couch.

Props to Kaz for partying with me last week and Gregster for employing me this week. You two make my world go round. Round like a record baby. Right round round round.

Also, myspace.com has reunited me with all sorts of people... the entire Perfect in Plastic crew (including MistaKris), Jam Magazine people, and some fellow high school alumns. Alumni. Whatever. Great site.

Happy Birthday Marty (11/23).

Last night we celebrated my best friend Marty's birthday by doing somewhat of a pub crawl. Through the course of the evening I drank Jack Daniels, Hefeweizen, Godiva chocolate liqueur, Bud Light and oh my fucking god I wish I'd throw up already. Met Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite at a bar last night. Fell asleep next to a girl that was psychoanalyzing me as I drifted off to sleep. Yeah, that's much more fun than a blow job. Thanks. Delve deeper... I might reach a full fetal position. I miss my child psychologist who let me hit him with a foam bat at the beginning of each session. Good stuff, but I guess I should think about what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving.

I'm thankful for peer-to-peer filesharing and the abundance of music and porn it brings.

I'm thankful for the Nextel phone/walkie talkie and the call forwarding so I can get calls at all the places Nextel doesn't reach.

I'm thankful for antivirus software and antivirus condoms.

I'm thankful for asshole boyfriends and the noncommital sex from unhappy girlfriends they bring me.

I'm thankful for popsicle sticks and the vomitting I hope one brings me soon.

I'm thankful for Microsoft's mediocre products and the abundance of work they bring me.

I'm thankful for mail order Viagra pills and the good first (if only) impression they allow me to give.

I'm thankful for this website which celebrates (I guess) six years this month. I'm also thankful for the two girlfriends, two changes of residence, home purchase, college graduation, pregnancy scares, job I lost, business I began, friends I've made, friends I've lost, cars I've sold and purchased during the last six years. I need to settle down.

Not yet, but eventually.

Happy Thanksgiving.

GOOCHout.

I really hope I throw up soon.

Item #1: I apologize for the pussiness of that last blog.

Item #2: I performed a mock wedding on Friday at the Ash Street. If anyone was there, let me know how it went. I don't remember. Happy Birthday Brian and JNAU.

Item #3: I've officially deemed my mattress unsleepable. It hurts my back too much and needs to be refuckingplaced. It's made up and looks tidy. It's reserved strictly for sex and the obligatory post-coital cuddling. I'm on the couch this week until I replace it.

Item #4: First the hot-tub got fixed and now the digital cable at Marty's house is working. We watched two back episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Fucking sweet.

Item #5: How come it was okay for Ringo Starr and others to sing about 16 year-old girls? I hit the classic station on Sirius and caught a couple of tunes... "She's juuuust sixteen years old..." Sick Fucks. "Seventeen?" that's alright... keep Winger out of this.

Item #6: Do cartoonists in the funny/comics pages of the paper really need to keep making cute nods to each other? We get it... you're part of an exclusive fraternity and you think it's cute to put other peoples cartoon characters in your cartoons and to make funny inside jokes and references and fucking stop it already... make me laugh you fucks. Give me a reason (other than the Fry's ads) not to have the barrel of a .38 special for breakfast.

Item #7: Watched "Raging Bull" today. Robert DeNiro played boxer Jake LaMotta and Joe Pesci pretty much played Joe Pesci. The ending of Boogie Nights appears to me to be an homage to the ending of Raging Bull. Good movie. DeNiro and Pesci could do a kids' film and I'd watch it.

Item #8: I'm going to bed. Good night and good luck. You'll need it.

This entire week I've felt lonely. Not that I haven't hung out with friends or anything... just that I dreaded coming home to an empty condo. I don't have a cat or even a healthy plant to welcome me home from a semi-tough day at work. I've filled the void by drinking at familiar bars and over staying my welcome at friends' houses. Last night on my way home from work, I became thirsty (a common occurence on this medication). I remembered that I had an energy drink in the console of the car. The name of the drink is called "RedLine RTX" and half of the label is a warning. I consumed the drink in its entirety and by the time I made it to my exit, I'd begun to sweat and my hands were shaking. I felt like I was on cocaine except I still had money in my wallet.

Once I got home I decided I needed to immediately jerk off and go to the gym. BearShare yielded some fresh porn so my time to release was expedited. I threw on some gym shorts, lifted weights, went home, cleaned, grocery shopped, did laundry, cleaned some more, fell asleep, woke up at 2:30am, and started a loaf of bread in my new bread maker.

The breadmaker is a device that my ex-girlfriend handed down to me. My friend Marty happened to have some premix bread maker ingredients, which he gave me yesterday. I've actually been dying to use this thing as the thought of merely pouring ingredients into a machine and having a loaf of fucking bread mysteriously materialize while I wait is like a dream come true for me. I'm still excited about the automatic dishwasher and the Crock Pot for chrissakes.

I don't have the instruction manual for the breadmaker, so I had to determine the machine's capacity and adjust the ingredients accordingly. Fortunately I have the measuring utensils necessary for the task. Water first, then mix, then yeast. Don't let the yeast touch the water. Place breadpan back into breadmaker and set for 'regular.' I guess. We'll see what happens. I'm excited at the prospect of giving someone a loaf of bread tomorrow. Home made, from my oven. Sort of.

Anyways, I'm going to set an alarm to wake me at 7am, when the bread will be done. I actually enjoyed being home alone last night. Watched whatever I wanted, ate whatever I wanted. Didn't even have a drink. Sometimes being in my own skin doesn't require a vice.

Huh.

goochout

Jessica, Stefanie, Gooch, Marty, Carly: Halloween 2005.

1:38pm - Tuesday

I'm pretty sure that girls are never genuinely interested in me unless they're in competition with someone else for my affections. It sounds silly and self gratifying, but I can point out instances since high school when a girl didn't want me, only that they didn't want a specific person to have me. Holy shit, the more I think about it I know it's true. Quite frankly, if you want to cock block me, it's cool. However, I'd better somehow get laid... or even a blow job out of the deal.

Gooch: Medicated and by most suckers hated.

I'm actually seeing someone right now. We run more errands together than actual dating, but I've been reminded as to what a functional relationship is and can be. It's been three years since I experienced that. Grocery shopping as a date? Fine with me.

Work is good. I've started taking some time and cleaning/rearranging the house for the holidays. I'm going to get a tree this year. I've never had one at my own place. I'm confused as to whether I'm supposed to decorate for fall or straight up Christmas shit. I've got some orange candles and a throw blanket in the Living room. It'll do for now. How the fuck did blue become a Christmas color? It's all over the place. I'll never know. It's like the blue pigment industry lobbied to be included with the red white and green pigment groups.

goochout

nbc4.com - News - Police: Burrito Sparks 7-Eleven Fight

Seroquel (quetiapine) - The Good, The Bad and The Funny. From People Who Have Taken These Crazy Meds...and SCIENCE!

Hmmm...

It's 8:07. I'm behind schedule. Wanted to be at Fry's by 8am. Need wireless stuff. Been to the gym this morning. Started new meds that dictate that I cannot drink at all while I'm taking them. Sobriety is more fun when it's self imposed. I had one drink the first night I took a pill and I slept for 10 hours. That cuts into productivity and when you work a couple hours a day, that can mean a lot.

BREAKING Johngallucci*

Had to talk to a shrink in conjunction with the prescription of the pills. Questions like "How many mailboxes did you knock over" and "have you been arrested" came into play. I don't know what was less comfortable: the questions or the blood drawing.

Only a hot chick like Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas could rhyme "work" and "shirt" and get away with it.

*Johngallucci, my full first and last name rhymes with Bonaduce. Get it? That's fun.

Pizza and Xanax

I'm in the middle of one of the first serious anxiety attacks I've had in a while. I woke up while tossing and turning in bed in my clothes. I layed down for a bit, planning to hang out with some friends and instead fell asleep for a few hours. My T-shirt was soaked with sweat as if I'd just gotten off the treadmill. After 10 minutes of laying and staring at the ceiling while Behind the Music blared on the TV (it wasn't the anxiety, the ceiling was more interesting than the band on BtM) I saw my keychain on the nightstand. On my keychain is a pill holder with the two best drugs in the world: Viagra and Xanax. Careful not to take the wrong one (they're both blue) I broke off some Xanax. Ten minutes later I treated myself to some leftover 2am pizza. My arms are tired as if I just worked out and my hands are trembling. What the fuck? Is this sobriety? You can keep it. Nice experiment. Paging Dr. Daniels... Dr. Jack Daniels, MD. At least when I drank, I had legitimate things to panic about. Holy shit. I hope this stuff kicks in soon. I need sleep. Going to Foo Fighters/Weezer tomorrow night. Awesome. I have work tomorrow, which is great. Dammit, there's nothing on TV. Been watching Soprano's starting from episode 1 with some friends. Awesome.

Put a new router in today. Probably the first upgrade to the goochonline.com network since the used Intel 24 port switch I installed in March. Exciting? Not really. Oh, the CAM is back on (click the link in the menu above). Meanwhile, just paying bills and living the dream.

I need a drink.

GOOCH:out

Jack Daniels made me look handsome, confident. Sobriety makes me look strung out. I'm not a role model. Day 8.

Work at home day:
9am wake up - 9:30 get out of bed - 9:35 start on one of five computer systems I need to complete today. Disregard any order in which they are due; merely grab the first tower in the hallway and go to work. - 12pm cancel lunch with one ex girlfriend and have lunch with another ex girlfriend. - 1pm back to work - 2pm NAP - 3pm continue working - 5pm workout then tan - 6pm on... who cares.

THIS IS WHAT IT'S LIKE WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE
My ex signed Gregster's guestbook. The posting he got was much nicer than I got; though he and his friends didn't call her nasty names.

Hollywood Is Calling
Oh... this is bad. I don't recognize any of these, except for Apollo from Battlestar Galactica and Tommy Habeeb.

The Seattle Times: Local News: Trespassing charged in horse-sex case

I want to crash the guy's funeral and get up in front of all his family and friends and say my most loathed eulogy statement ever: He died doing what he loved.

I'd have to get out of the funeral as soon as possible... but sweet!

Breaking Gooch II

If I can figure out a way to discuss my current situation without sounding self pitying and actually give a cautionary tale without being self serving in any way, I will. Otherwise, fuck off. No alcohol or caffeine... the staples of my diet for the past two months... sober and uncaffeinated for six days. I'm tired all of the time and withdrawals have made me unbearable; to myself and everyone else. Rough week, but I feel great. I don't look it, but I feel it.

Interesting shit: Click HERE

GOOCH:BROKEN

Reason #327 why I'm happy being self employed:Worker Stabbed in Microwave Dispute.

My good friend received a letter from his out-of-town girlfriend which served as an official notice of breakup. I've broken up with the same girl twice now. My ex-ex girlfriend and I acknowledge the anniversary of our breakup each year. One of my best friends is a girl I dated 10 years ago. Relationships are like old people, goldfish, and 27-year-old junkie rock stars: they die. The modern attention span can't fathom waiting 15 minutes for a meal or only driving 70mph to get to work. It certainly cannot deal with 'til death do us part.


MY PARENTS; CIRCA 1972

My last afternoon in Reno I decided to have a good dinner and eat whatever I wanted for a meal. I went to the fitness center in my hotel and no one was there. I guess that's because only a fag would work out in Reno at 6pm. There are two TVs in the gym and it happened to be that Scarface and Casino were showing on two separate channels. I was on the treadmill watching both movies at the same time. If you'd replaced my water bottle for a Red Bull-vodka and the treadmill for a blow job... I'd have been the happiest man alive.

Stripper economics: How come in Reno I can give a stripper a dollar bill and in exchange she rubs her $3000 tits all over my unshaven face. Who the fuck is the guy who hangs out in the bathroom at the strip club and hands me a paper towel for the same dollar bill? I feel like saying "hey, do you know what I can get for that dollar no less than 20 feet away?"

I didn't actually go to a strip club this trip, but I this thought occurred to me for some reason.

Danny Bonaduce? I like him so much more now that he's slitting his wrists and shooting up on national television. KGB (do I know you?) left the comment about Breaking Bonaduce. I think it's the best show on television... especially for reality. I don't think it's bullshit either: he's genuinely fucking nuts. It's also edited and shot really well. I hope that the entire series comes out on DVD. Did I already talk about this show? Oh, man. I need a vacation from my vacation.

I'm really happy right now. I can't tell if it's genuine happiness or merely a drawn out manic episode from my bipolar disorder. Fuck it... I'll take happiness where I can get it.

Went to Shooters last night. Some guy was trying to smoke me out in the parking lot. He had some shit that I've only heard about in Dr. Dre songs. I passed, but some girl didn't, went with him and came back looking and acting like a fucking psycho. Good stuff. I figured I'd have a few drinks at Shooters and then call it a night. I met a guy and some girls that work in bars around the area and we took off for a club about four blocks away. It was pretty sweet, considering I thought my night was going to consist of three beers, two shots of Jack Daniels, and mediocre drunken conversation.

The club was packed. We got right in. Wish I had pictures... every chick was gorgeous. The ones that weren't? I drank until they were. That's how I roll. I got chirped on my Nextel by a friend at 2am and started to get homesick. The cure for homesickness? Another beer.

First full day in Reno. The Eldorado Italian Festival is currently happening on the streets below my hotel window. I've been there all morning watching every single Italian stereotype played out over four city blocks. An organ-grinder monkey? It's down there. I've got to get me one of those. If I can train a monkey to mix a decent bloody mary, I can stop asking for a midget this Christmas.

I'm staying at the Circus Circus in Reno. They have a shitty buffet, but a decent wedding chapel. If 24-hour wedding chapels are so popular in Nevada, maybe I should offer a 24-hour annulment service. I'm ordained to perform weddings... what website do I need to go to be ordained to unperform them? Fuck... there's a niche market waiting to be tapped.

I'm up about $60 at blackjack so far. The chips I hold in my hand tonight represent tomorrow's awful hangover. There's some pretty cool clubs popping up in Reno - not like it was 10 years ago. I think I'll end up at Shooters tonight. It's a cool little bar and Dave Attel even shot his "Insomniac" show there a few years ago. Also a plus is that the bartenders are hot and usually more drunk than me at any given moment.

I went out on a date Wednesday night. I found a girl completely opposite of every girl I've dated in recent memory and asked her out. I was actually hoping she'd cancel on me as I started to realize (as I'm vacuuming out my car) how much work dating is. She was cool and after dinner I brought her out to hang out with my friends. A group of us were sitting at a booth and my date was holding her own like a champ. Things were smooth until the topic of getting my friend's hot tub repaired came up. Marty, the hot tub owner, hinted that the reason for his non-functioning hot tub was that "one of Gooch's condoms" probably got stuck in the filter. Marty realized what he'd said in front of my date, his girlfriend's eyes got wide as she punched his leg under the table, and I wasn't able to look at my date for the next five minutes. I almost leaned over and said "he's only kidding, I didn't use a condom that night."

The date went well and I want to call her back, but I've heard varying advice on when to call: 48 hours, the following Saturday (today), and just when I get back from my trip (JNAU's suggestion). If I'm thinking this hard about when to call a girl after a date, then I probably shouldn't be dating. On the other hand, if she goes out with me after hanging out with my crew at Skyland, maybe she's a keeper.

Maybe I need to have a drink and not worry so much about shit at home. Shout out to: Stefanie, Marty, Carly, the cul-de-sac, G'Mo (call me, you fuck... I'll fly in early if I need to), Nikki, Robin, Eric, and Erik.

GOOCH: in Reno911

I'm in Reno. I'll try to do something obnoxious enough to warrant a decent blog. I need a nap... then drinks. yo.

gooch:out

CNN.com - Beer mat knows when it is?refill time - Sep 30, 2005

Also from the guestbook (I need to check it more often) in response to a blog discussing my pouring of appletinis:

Apple-tinis Gooch? That's not metro...it's just gay. Drink a beer and stop being such a mayonaise mouth!

Roman Polanski is a fucking degenerate child molester/rapist who fled to France to avoid facing charges in the US. Go see Oliver Twist and support this asshole.

In other news, I've lost more weight. I don't even think I meant to. I've eaten crappy foods, just not as much. Moderation: I might learn about it before I turn 50. I'll have to learn about it before I turn 50, because if I don't, I won't see 50. Did that sentence make sense? I mean, I just typed it and now that I'm done with it I don't know if it really captured what I was trying to say.

GOOCH:out

And from my Guestbook (which I never, ever check)

This is just your recent ex "ho" checking in. Thanks a fucking lot!!!!

Apparently my ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend has internet access. That guestbook posting prefaced a 5:31am phone call and a 6:12am visit by her to my house where we drank wine and discussed things for four hours. She didn't like being called a 'ho' on a website. I didn't like her being one while we were together. She returned her ring. We talked, cried, had another glass of wine. It was a good visit. The conclusion was that we still love each other but I'll never, ever forgive her for the shit she did and we'll never, ever, ever get back together again. Hopefully the page can be turned on that chapter in both our lives.

Letters to the Predator:

To John "The Gooch" Gallucci:

In the interest of creating a fair and unbiased educational tool for the mass population that is your readership, I feel compelled to take you up on your offer to post replies, commentary, and general bullshit-busting hyperbole on your blog. Usually I can find an intellectual middle-ground between my own beliefs and the ideas you so generously impart to your readers (mostly alcohol-induced, if I understand correctly?). However, I find your recent comments regarding the work atmosphere in a bar/pub/club to be wholly shortsighted and fantastically prejudiced.

In short, you dumb-ass, open your fucking eyes and give the women in the food/drink service industry credit for having half a brain when it comes to being hit on by drunken assholes while on the job. If a chick's a slut, then she'll be a slut whether she gets sweated while working at Target, the post office, Nordstrom or Congress. Just because you were idiot enough to PICK one of those sluts to date, undate, redate, an undate again does NOT mean that you can ascribe the same behavioral patterns that she displayed to female bartenders/cocktailers/waitresses in general. It's the WOMAN, not the JOB you should worry about. Okay, unless she's a hooker.

Pffffft. Tard.

'Kay, love you! Glad your work-out regimen is going well! 9 pounds!!!! That's awesome! Greek Festival this weekend..... mmmmmm.... hummus....

JNAU

Response: You're absolutely right. Apologies to my service industry lady friends. Plus, comments like mine on the blog in question really aren't conducive to me getting laid at all. Neither was that last sentence. Fuck. My postings aren't mostly alcohol induced, merely somewhat alcohol induced as of late. Dammit, JNAU writes better than me. "Fantastically prejudiced?" Love it.

And one more...

Hey! We're just trying to learn the Gooch-way! You're making out with chicks that we only dream about making out with. You're the lucky one, dude! I can't even make out with the bar bitches at Putters on Woodstock! The Gooch-way: It's the only way. (take that one to the bank!) Perhaps us not-making-out-with-hot-chicks guys can learn a few things from the Goochmeister. Oh shit, I've got a girlfriend. Damn, I knew I was forgetting some random, mildly important detail.

GREGSTER: www.thedominoeffect.com

Response: Greg is the person who questioned what good looking girls "saw in me." Please know that for every hot chick that gets drunk and makes out with me, there's like four or five that you'd never, ever see or hear about. It's the law of averages. I make out with average looking chicks like it was a law to do so.

GOOCH:out

BREAKING GOOCH

Last night I had one person ask the question "what do these [really attractive] girls see in you." He's referring to the string of make out sessions I've had with known good looking chicks and the ghosts of girlfriends past. Maybe it's alcohol. Who knows. Who cares. I'm not a bad looking guy... what the fuck?

Another guy questioned how I make a living at what I do with the little experience I have in the field. "How do you have your own company with all these customers?" Answer: Google. I have an artificial knowledge base in Google. When the customer isn't looking, I do a search in Google. NTLDR is missing? What does that mean...? Google that shit, yo.

Another was telling me what a 'ho' my recent ex-girlfriend was. Um, well yeah. Got me there.

Another guy was talking about how little the person that beat the shit out of me last month was.

Hey, that's great you guys. It's hard enough being a living, breathing legend without random people questioning my livelihood, manhood, and um... screw you guys.

I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier.

It's 5:16am, but I've just woke up and not just gotten home, which is the circumstance under which we usually find each other at this time in the morning. I'm actually waiting for the gym to open.

I woke up early. I'm not tossing and turning, as evidenced by the sheets still in place on my bed. I have been drooling a lot in my sleep lately. Work has been stressfull. Plus, the Ashlee Simpson/Jessica Simpson which-would-I-sleep-with debate rages on inside my head. I like Ashlee's heavy eyeliner; it suggests a sort of a rebelliousness that would allow her to drink a couple of Zimas and have sex with me just to piss off her psycho Dad. After I saw Ashlee's "Boyfriend" video on MTV this morning, I saw Jessica Simpson on a ProActiv acne medicine infomercial. I couldn't even get a boner to it.

Trust me: if anyone can jerk off to an infomercial, it's me.

Geez, I just checked the gym website. They opened at 4:30am. I thought they opened at 6:30. I'm out!

I mentioned to a random stranger with whom I was playing pool that I need to watch what I drink because I don't eat after 7pm, so I get sorta drunk quickly when I start to drink at, say 10pm. He, weighing about 135 pounds, stated that he wished he had a "good metabolism" like me because he'd been trying to gain weight since he was 16. Jesus... the grass is always greener on the other side. I think society puts too much into physical attractiveness as the tie that binds people into a relationship. I mean, everyone in a relationship knows that their significant other can likely meet and date someone else. Even someone more attractive than you are (in some sort of arbitrary social construction sort of way). Yet some relationships last simply through love. Sickness and in health... thickness and in health. My relationship with Cheryl consisted of the two of us losing and gaining weight, but not at the same time. We went on Atkins: I was skinny, she was heavier. We went on Weight Watchers: I balooned, she lost a lot of weight. Our relationship was like King of Queens: Fat bastard Kevin James and Piece of Ass Leah Remini (or, any CBS sitcom for that matter). She was pretty awesome, though. Guys way better looking than me hit on her at clubs and she rejected their advances fully. I had confidence in her, I never stressed about it.

Sometimes, it doesn't work that way. It's probably why I don't want to date girls who work in bars anymore: 6 hours in an environment where drunk guys are constantly hitting on you. No thanks, I can't take the disrespect from other guys towards me... whether I imagine it or not.

So now, I'm single (for a month now). Clean slate. I've asked only two girls for their phone number (and got them both). Both of them I verified that they didn't pour drinks, serve drinks, or were even someone I saw in the bar all that often. I have nothing against that crowd, but it's not a relationship environment that works well for me.

I don't date hardly at all, so decent places like Ruth's Chris are in the future. In the past I dated everyone that would go out with me. Now, I'm somewhat selective. In the interim, my friend is dating a girl with a lot of hot friends, so I platonically wing-man for them. It's a lot of fun and it's amazing how much fun you can have with a girl when you talk to her and don't just try to screw her on your friend's couch. Or on your couch. Or in your Ford Escape. Or... anyway.

Well, Girls Gone Wild infomercial is on... it's the best thing on at 5:20am.

Gooch:OUT

My next drunken 3am purchase will be made on this site. [click here]

Inhale. Exhale.

10am: Had a full weekend. Made some friends, crushed some enemies. Made money. Spent more. Taught valuable computer lessons to a dental hygiene student. Bought clothes. I'm down nine pounds since dieting and working out through an endeavor started three weeks ago. Part of my diet is not eating after 7pm. Unfortunately, cocktail hour runs through 2:30am. Empty stomach drinking renders me and a buddy of mine on the same [no eating after 7pm] plan a little plastered after midnight. Jogged a full two laps around my outdoor track this weekend and might've tried for more except I ran out of time (thank God... I was sucking wind). Going to work out as soon as I'm done typing this. In work today I'm actually being proactive with my customers: courtesy calls, follow-up calls. Right now I'm downloading some Night Ranger tunes. I'm going tanning and working out now.

2pm: What a beautiful fucking day. It feels good. Just did an hour on a treadmill, 20minutes of squats, dips, and curls. Got some work this afternoon. Feeling good. GOOCH:out

I rode the bus today to take keys to the Ford dealership so they can fix whatever the hell is wrong with it. I could have caught a ride but a walk to the bus stop didn't seem like a bad idea. Once on the bus I did the usual people watching. It's not as fun as the downtown MAX line, but amusing nonetheless. A baby wouldn't stop crying and then another passenger with a baby boarded and sat across the other baby. The crying stopped and the two infants stared at each other while sitting on their Mother's laps. They looked like they were communicating with each other somehow through grunts and squeals. I imagined what the conversation was like:

Baby Girl: How's it going?

Baby Boy: Good. Threw a bunch of food around my high chair and ultimately caused myself
another bath. Listened to some Raffi after that. Good times. You?

Baby Girl: Oh, unconsolable crying until Teletubbies come on. That shit is Hypnotic! You threw the food around? Did you eat any at all?

Baby Boy: Oh, yeah. I ate enough to shit myself later. I think we're going to the bank, so I'll wait until we're standing in line.

Baby Girl: Well played. Well played.

Baby Boy: It's how I roll.

I refuse at this point to read the uniparagraphed blog below this one and the audio one. It's creepy to read what my drunken subconscous has written, especially with the events as of late. I'm going to crack open a bottle of wine and watch something on TV.

I need help. I'm a little bit out of control right now. I'll probably wake up tomorrow and delete this. It's 4:40am. I've gone through a lot this week and no one will care because it's all stuff I brought on myself. I brought it on with good intentions but I don't think I was thinking too clearly. I'm 31 and I know I should be starting a family, working a corporate job, have a house with a backyard, etc. I don't. Instead I work 15 hours a week, pay someone to clean my place, and spend time wondering where my best friend and I are going to have lunch during the day or drink that night. It actually sounds pretty cool on paper (or screen). I figured married by 25 and for some reason I picked someone for a relationship who I'm going to have to end up testifying against because I'm going to be subpoenad to help her son's Father get full custody. I'm not biased, but the truth will lend itself to that. I walk into bars and I seem to know everyone and they all seem to like me. I make out with random girls that I'm barely attracted to. Am I seeking validation? I have a best friend and he has pulled me out of two bars in recent months to keep me from getting my ass kicked. What life is this? With work, I'm so grateful to my customers who allow me to be self employed. Whenever a company says "customer appreciation" in front of a sale or a slogan or something I truly understand what is going on. I know what every customer means to a business owner. It's good knowing someone trusts you with a chunk of their lives and disposable (and sometimes not) income. I've learned never to take anyone for granted. In the last seven months I've told more people that "I love" them. It's because I truly do. I picture my life without them and I'm glad they're there. Imagine the most important people and things in your life and think about life without them. I know the people in New Orleans miss their homes more than they thought they ever would. We go through life in cruise control... it's numbing to think about the day in-day out lifestyle. We're cogs in a machine with the occasional vacation. Everyone needs a fight club. Everyone needs an Old School. I'm the #1 bachelor on the planet and I spent the better part of two years trying to maintain somewhat of a family with a girl and her son. It's ended badly. I'm not upset because of the girl, but because of the wasted time. I guess; I don't know. I was okay being a cog. Enchanted Forest trips, beach trips, Zoo trips, and so forth. Now I'm sort of in a single lifestyle whirlwind that I don't think any one of my friends can relate to. Add to that an inabilty to know when to stop drinking during the course of an evening and lonliness and anxiety turns itself into a pretty good drinking problem. I don't have a problem with drinking; I have a ton of booze at my house that I never, ever touch unless guests are over (and sometimes not even then). I have a problem stopping once I've started. I am fairly anxiety ridden and I think anything that eases that makes my brain think that more is always better. It happens, I'm not alone. I'm sorry I badmouthed my friends that had initial concerns about me. I guess when you live alone and you end up being self employed and making decent money it lends itself to a funky, party lifestyle. I'm not stopping anything but I think I'll seek some sort of counseling to sort out my life. I spent so much time trying to make my life look uncomplicated that it ended up being a nightmare. I'm not alone in self control issues. I think everyone has them. It's okay. Get help... I rely on my friends to call me a "loser" and to tell me I'm "better than that." It's not healthy. I have customers who are doctors and have acknowledged specific conditions that I have, which I've somewhat ignored. I'm going to try to address these. I think everyone should. It sucks because I'm probably going to delete this tomorrow when I have a clear head. I hate taking pills. Ironically, since I have no problem putting other stuff into my system. People who you'd think have their shit together are so screwed up that they kill themselves. I would never do that because I have too many people left in the world to piss off. My work isn't done. I guess if I'd released Nevermind then a shotgun to the head would be acceptable(?). We're all a product not of our environment but of the choices we've made in life. Anyway, Eurotrip is on and it's so unfunny that I can't miss a minute. GOOCH:out.

Only I could take a job such as laundering a sleeping bag and make it a full day's task. If you recall, I urinated into my friend JNAU's borrowed sleeping bag on the last day of our camping trip. I offered to replace the bag, but it's part of a matching set that she likes. There's not enough room in my washing machine for a sleeping bag, so I took it to the laundromat up the street.

Laundromats, as I recall from television and movies, are typically filled with single women, college girls, girls in their underwear because they're washing the clothes in which they were in. Folding tables are not for folding clothes but rather for anonymous sexual encounters.

The reality is me standing in front of a huge seventies styled washing machine with a garbage bag full of urine soaked sleeping bag. I'm all alone, which is good because I don't want anyone seeing me with a look of confusion on my face while trying to do a load of laundry. I know how to use my washing machine at home, but this is bewildering. I read the instructions:

Step 1: Look inside washing machine to ensure no children, pets, or foreign objects are inside.

No shit? My rule for warnings is that for a warning to exist someone had to make the mistake once. It had to happen at a laundromat. It had to be done by a lady with five kids with rollers in her hair and a fucking Virginia Slim in between her remaining teeth. My anticipated porno experience quickly became a white trash hell.

$5.00 to wash the sleeping bag. I'll be damned if I am going to return a sleeping bag in which I pissed to someone after washing it only once. Total cost was about $13.00 and half a day.

PUBLIC APOLOGY: to Marty for flaking on tennis today.

In order to save this website I've invited JNAU, a fellow writer, to submit postings on this blog. I hope she accepts because anger isn't really all that sexy and It's all that drives me at the moment. My diet consists of Red Bull, Vodka, and anger. Good stuff.

Dammit - Bob Denver dead at 70

Meanwhile I just got done working out. I feel under seige right now with the ex and my friends pissing me off. I've dug deep into the trenches of my massive cell phone list for girls I ignored for someone else because I want to make up an excuse for my leaving and try to have sex with them again. I don't even want to have sex with girls because I like them, but because I'm angry at my ex. I'm what you might call a prick.

I haven't gotten laid off this site for a while, I know that posting the last paragraph would kill my chances. So, let's keep this our little secret... 'k?

Gooch:back

Just got back from a rafting trip. I was reminded of my mortality when in the first set of rapids I was thrown from my raft and into an eddy where I tumbled under water for some 15-20 seconds. Death comes unexpectedly and in run-on sentences. The 25 people in the rafting party saw me go under and my paddle float away, which looks really fucking ominous. I made it out and soaked up the sympathy from the female rafters in the party.

Three nights and three days I drank more beer than I have in a long time. Seventy-five per cent of my caloric intake was from Coors Light. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. This morning I woke up in my jeans, soaked in urine, in my friend JNAU's sleeping bag.

Fuck. No one else in the camp party (except for JNAU) knew about it, but I share it with you.

I'm single now. Old School. I'm revamping this site. I almost killed it - shut down the seerver for good. It has jumped the shark. At what point do you think it jumped?

*Gooch graduates from college.
*Jam Magazine folds.
*Gooch appears on Jim Spagg's cable access show. Twice.
*Gooch and Cheryl break up.
*Gooch removes angry drunken post against Cheryl from the blog.
*Gooch loses his job.
*Gooch appears in daytime commercials recruiting deprssion study subjects.
*Gooch gets together with Meggan.
*Gooch breaks up with Meggan.
*Gooch gets back together with Meggan.
*Gooch removes posted picture of himself in a hot tub with a 20. year-old with whom he had sex because it hurt Meggan's feelings.


There's so much more that I have to do. I'm single again. For the first time in two years I'm happy. Not the kind of happy that comes from shotgunning a beer or waking up to a not-so-ugly chick. I do get drunk but I laugh myself to sleep instead of having panic attacks or wondering who I threw a fucking pool cue at the night before. I can make out with random chicks and not get emotionally attached. My only decision tonight is where Marty and I are going to get cocktails. Tomorrow: no alarm clock; just like every other day. Some people may judge, say I'm too old to live like this. Some say I should be more ambitious. Some people might even try to organize an intervention. These people may also want to bounce my balls on their tongue for a solid five minutes.

It's happy hour somewhere right now. I'm happy and I'm out.

GOOCH:out.

Quote of the week: "You kiss just like my husband." - said to me Monday morning

This was sent from my friend Marty.
The band changed their name to Black Eyed Peed.
No Fergie... it's Black Eyed Peas. With an 'a', you know...
Let's get it started? I think she's done.
I'd still jerk off to her.
She phunked with her pants.
"Dude... Fergie's pissed!"
[your caption here]

I am a rock star...?

Last night was an epic hard core bender resulting in an hours-long blackout and lengthy descriptions from witnesses about my behavior. I did something with someone last night that I should really fucking feel guilty about. This morning I kept wondering why I didn't feel guilty. It was because I was still drunk. It's alright, I'm hiding out at my friend Nikki's house tonight. I joined a gym officially today. Feels good working out again. It's like I became single and suddenly realized that I'm fucking fat. God Dammit.

Festa Italiana this weekend in Portland and a rafting trip the week after that.

I feel like Doogie Howser typing on this thing.

I am a rock star. Unleashed an attack on my liver last night. I remember being drunk and hanging my leg over the side of a tall building my friends and I snuck on to. I also put my hands over the satellite dish's receiver, assumingly rendering some guests without some video for a couple of seconds.

Paging Dr. Jack Daniels.

I love JD. I drink it on the rocks. I drink it in my socks. I drink it on the floor. I drink it with a whore. I drink it at a party. I drink it with my friend Marty. I drink it at happy hour. I drink it in the shower. I drink it in the... what the fuck am I writing?

Have a wedding to go to tonight. Ninety degrees with a shirt and tie. Fuck. Rafting next weekend. Sweet.

What a weekend. I partied like a rock star. I'm not a rock star. I feel like shit. Having a house cleaner over to my house tomorrow before she goes to my friend Marty's house. Once. that's done, it opens up the way to having a friend over to cook dinner. I'm installing a computer at a friend's house now. I'm emotionally wrecked but glad I'm out of a fucked up situation. This entry makes no sense. Fuck it, it's not for you, it's for me. Good times ahead. Good times indeed.

With the relationship issues crumbling under me, I've decided to take a couple of weeks and go out of town. Unfortunately, my savings indicates that I have enough financial reserves to last, um... twenty-two minutes outside of Portland. I have learned that in my own personal dating experience, my chances with a girl dwindle to... zero when she starts calling me "Gooch." That's how I know I've entered the friend zone. It's happened numerous times. They don't even know they're doing it. This is okay as I made out with a girl ten years ago that called me "Gooch" during the event and holy fucking shit it creeped me out.

I'm sitting watching the remainder of the Windows Updates on the systems I've worked on today complete. Here's the website for the guy I'm filling in for. For whom I'm filling in while he's in Vegas. Get laid, young brother. Get laid. :

www.thedominoeffect.com

I'm out. Drinks, anyone? Where's my TPS reports?

I got nothing. Had a drink after work for the first time in a long time. I mean, my work schedule has no beginning or end as I merely whore myself out around town slanging my filthy tech support to anyone who will pay for it.

Where the fuck did that come from?

Yesterday and eventually today yielded me a workday finishing time close to 5pm. That warranted me the right to go into a bar, possibly bitch about my workday to the nearest asshole who'd listen and drink just enough that I shouldn't drive but I will anyway.

I'm spending an entire eight-hour day in an office. The people here are really nice, which is good considering my people skills have atrophied to about two hours max of tolerance. I'm wearing shorts and my company's logo t-shirt which means I look more in place by the pool instead of a corporate environment. Don't care.

Wednesday I was paid for five hours to sit at the court building and spoke twice. Once in mediation for my client versus an incompetent contractor and another time in front of the judge who eventually found our testimony to be not only more believable, but less white-trash than the defendant.

Shit, getting my writing chops back. Slowly released from the confines of a girlfriend has freed up some creativity. Fucking Thai food for lunch is releasing it's coma inducing toxins on me. Must drink corporate coffee to fight this before my head hits the fucking keyboard.

Goochout!

Peter Jennings passed away this weekend. I didn't really appreciate the "J" man, as nobody called him, until I found out that he was a smoker. Actually, he was a smoker until he quit, only to start up after 9/11. I can only imagine the smoker's rationale: I work in New York, people are flying airplanes into our office buildings, they're sending anthrax to my colleagues... fuck it, light 'em up. Peter Jennings should have done his broadcasts with a smoke in one hand and a high-ball in the other. Jennings decided that the Marlboro man should get him before Al-Queda.

This morning I awoke as I normally do on Mondays: groggy with a headache on someone elses couch listening to the news> Walter Cronkite, who been carbon dated to about 138 million years old is eulogizing Peter Jennings. My God, Walter Cronkite is spending his retirement eulogizing fallen broadcasters and presidents that are younger than him. That would have to be depressing.

Had a girl over to the condo Friday night. If you're on a date with a girl, a lot of them feel comfortable in commenting on the cleanliness/state of your place of residence. Her verdict: a lot of cool gadgets. Our next "date" is her coming over and cleaning up my house. I explained that she didn't have to do that, but she insisted. That's pretty much embarrassing. Embarrassing, but practical as I had a housecleaner coming in next week.

Housecleaning would have been a moot effort as a fire broke out at my condo complex last night. It was all over the news and my phone started ringing as people watching the 10pm news saw Treehill Park Condo Fires and immediately called me. I was three beers into the evening and rushed home, not knowing if my place was ablaze. It wasn't. I was shocked at the number of fire trucks that responded to the fire, which only affected one building. I think I counted seven or eight trucks. Normally I would comment on the waste of resources, but when it's a fire so close to my house... fuck it. Keep up the good work you wonderful firefighters of East County. I couldn't get my car into my complex so I crashed at Marty's last night. Fires suck. I'd glad I kept my couch sleeping on the optional tip as opposed to having to sleep on someone's couch with nowhere else to go.

Ummm... goochout

CUT ME MICK!

Essentially got jumped again. That makes twice in almost seven years. There are plenty of times I should have been punched in the past. Lots of times. Both times the beating has occurred, however, I don't think they were justified. I mean, everyone deserves a beating sometime, right?

Adrian... Adrianne...

goochout

I haven't showered in a few days. I think I smell. I've spent the last five hours in a bizarre bipolaresquerollercoaster ride that began with a rampage on the streets of Vice City with a minigun and ending in bawling like a schoolgirl during a touching moment during the show Nip Tuck. I actually look crazy right now. I need to comb my hair. Shave. Shower.

Why do proctologists go into the field that they do? I mean, when you specialize you have to tell people in social settings at some point that you're going into that field and why. What's the answer to why? I mean, if someone goes into Psychiatry because they're interested in the mind and someone goes into plastic surgery because they're shallow and is a heart spacialist because they're fascinate by the circulatory system, then does a proctologist go into the field because they're fascinated with the ass? How do you answer "why are you going into proctology?" I'm not knocking it at all, but I'm just curious about the conversations during med school.

I haven't really had much to write about. Never an excuse, but fuck it. I did make my own media center computer complete with hard drive vcr, TV tuner, and Grand Theft Auto on the TV, like a real game. It's pretty nerdy but I don't care. Projects like that keep me off drugs and alcohol. Fucking hookers is still able to be accomplished through an intricate outcall program my escort service provides. I'm not drunk or high though.

As often.

Gooch:oooooooouuuuuttttttttttttt.

Just to dispel the rumors, Fantastic Four is not a movie about my penis. Daredevil is not a movie about the last two girls with whom I had unprotected sex.

I'm suing Marvel.

I rode Portland's MAX train to work today. I haven't gotten on a train since I saw Schindler's List about 10 years ago. Schindler's List pretty much did for Trains what Airport '77 did for air travel. For me, anyways. I mean, you get on the train with a bunch of people who are miserable, who don't talk to each other, who are going somewhere they definitely don't want to go, and some are worrying that a fare inspector is going to ask for their ticket... or papers.

Two months salary is the suggested guideline for what to spend on an engagement ring. In Oregon, three months' salary is the guideline to use when deciding how much to spend on illegal fireworks. You see, in Oregon we have laws against bottlerockets, M-80s, and anything else that flies and/or blows up. So deprived of these celebratory tools we are that some of us in Oregon feel the need to drive across the river into Washington to seek out things that go boom. We don't all have to do it. One person in every neighborhood typically designates himself as the one to spend about $1000 on fireworks at an indian reservation in WA. He won't hesitate to tell you how much he spent, because he'll repeat it over and over again as if he has a concussion. With a cigarette in his mouth, a Pabst Blue-Ribbon in one hand and a lit quarter-stick of dynamite in the other, the rest of the neighborhood watches him with the same anticipatory glee of a NASCAR fan. Sure it's fun to watch if everything goes as planned, but the high probability that someone will get maimed merely adds to the spirit of the Fourth.

Happy 4th of July, bitches.

GOOCH:out

Tom Cruise turns 43 today.

Happy birthday you weird fucking psycho-ass motherfucker.

I want to be a Hilton

You've got to be shitting me. Kathy Hilton, the mother of the most classless, skankiest slut on the planet is hosting a reality show where she teaches others etiquette, food appreciation and living high society life.

Kathy, who the fuck are you? Why don't you have your own daughter on the show? When your rich, socialite daughter stars in one of the best selling porn DVDs of all time, you're pretty much disqualified from telling people which fucking fork you should use for your salad. When South Park dedicates an entire episode to calling your daughter a skanky whore... when your daughter interrupts a blow job to answer her cell phone... Did Paris have a father figure growing up or is she merely looking for one in every asshole with a camcorder she meets?







Why does she bother wearing clothes? Which episode of 'Hilton' does Kathy discuss subduing tit and beaver shots and home movie lighting? Why am I so angry?


******

Is it me or does every fat, black actress find it necessary to give themselves a single, french name? Mo'Nique... Jackee... Others I can't think of.

******

Live 8: not watching it.

******

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been fifteen days since my last confession...

GOOCH: True Troutdale Story

I had recently moved to Troutdale and was recently single. My appearance and hygeine had become crucial as I endeavored more and more to meet the hot Troutdale bitches I'd heard so much about. I even resorted to using moistened towlettes during the course of ass-wiping just so wouldn't have that "no so fresh" feeling.

I had just finished taking a deuce when I blindly reached into the cabinet for a towlette. I grabbed one from a dispenser and, well, wiped. I got up and went to sit at the computer when my ass started to hurt. It was a dull burn quickly increasing to excruciating pain. I went to the bathroom to do... I don't know... something... when I looked down into the cabinet able to see what I couldn't when I was sitting on the toilet. I'd grabbed a Lysol disinfectant household wipe instead of the baby-wipe, both in similar packaging/dispensers. I unwittingly had rubbed chemicals into the most sensitive part of my body. And it hurt.

Bad.

Later, after the pain and tears subsided, I went to have a quick drink with some friends. I didn't know anyone that well, but the conversation got quiet, so I started one...

"Guess what I wiped my ass with an hour ago?"

Good ice-breaker, indeed.

GOOCH: Um... out?

I have to get a new mattress. It's like the Lone Ranger getting rid of Silver or Michael Knight getting rid of K.I.T.T. You could create an entire human being with the DNA you could scrape off that mattress. My girlfriend told me that the mattress is killing her back, and quite frankly it's killing mine, too (although I haven't admitted that to her yet). It's a living, breathing history of my bedroom life. Wine stains, the smell of massage oils, tears in the fabric from cheap rings, mascara stains. I didn't have sex with everyone I wanted, but with everyone that wanted to have sex with me. God dammit, I want to create my own Smithsonian: Gooch's mattress, Gooch's Atari, Gooch's first burned CD from 1996 (the Godfather Soundtrack), Gooch's Star Wars toys, the condom wrapper and shower cap from the hotel room where I lost my virginity, unimportant stuff like diplomas and trophies.

Oh well, so long good friend.

Rules... again (I'm sure I've done this many times before... just go with it).

It goes "In sickness and in health," not "In thickness and in health." Go on a diet you fat bastard/bitch. No wonder your wife is fucking your best friend/your husband is fucking everyone he can.

Quit saying "I'm Rick James Bitch."

Quit saying "Where's the Beef." (Sorry, my material is a little stale).

Girlfriends are like cars. If they break down on you three or four times, you probably don't want to take them on a long trip.

It's okay to date someone with kids, but establish a six-month rule before meeting them. The best way to avoid this situation in the first place is to date someone too young to have kids in the first place. Hey, you know where they are from 8:15 to 3:01 on weekdays.

Don't binge drink after 30, no one thinks it's okay after 30. If you date someone in their 20s and you're in your 30s, don't bitch at your significant other for his or her binge drinking. You got that drunk at that age, too.

Don't hang anything from your rear-view mirror. Ever.

If your name is Jennifer Garner, quit calling me. I'm taken.

Not Guilty.

I'm sitting here like an idiot... on my couch wearing only shorts and a three day-old beard... awaiting the Michael Jackson verdict. I really don't think I care either way other than I, as well as most of the country, are fascinated by stories of great falls by celebrities. I'm fascinated by the story of someone who had it all and fucked it up somehow because of a false sense of invincibility or immortality. I though a lot about Michael Jackson this weekend as I developed a wicked stomach flu and vomit and diarhea caused my throat and ass to be sore, respectively. "I'm guessing I feel like what MJ will feel about two hours into his sentence. Imagine prison rape while two 300 pound brothers are singing a duet of "The Girl is Mine."

I'm waiting for the verdict. While I do so, I want to apologize for the lack of updates and replies to emails. Shoutout to Tim, Marty, Meggan, Lee.

2:03pm Pacific Time... waiting for the verdict. Just ate a fudgecicle and drinking Crystal Light orange juice. I'm in the living room, typing on my laptop. The jury has been seated... waiting for the judge to come in. My Father is en route from Reno to Portland waiting for me to text message him the verdict to his cell phone. We really don't give a shit... just curious as to the outcome. Just ran upstairs to put on a shirt. Looked at the cell phone, no calls today. God forbid I should work on a Monday.

2:11pm: My girlfriend just came back to the condo. I feel like a schmuck for sitting here for an hour straight. My only saving grace is that I almost cleaned the kitchen in her absence. Otherwise, just a housewife watching gavel to gavel coverage. I've decided that I'll break away from the chronological order of the blog and end it with posting the verdict on the top of this entry. I wonder if my girlfrien will have sex with me before she goes to work. Dammit I can't think of anything else other than this stupid trial. How can I get a hard on whil thinking so much about a pedophile? Shit, give me the verdict already. Mama Say, Mama Saw, Mama cu saw.

Hold on... COUNTS 1: not guilty 2: not guilty 3: not guilty 4: not guilty 5: not guilty 6: not guilty 7: not guilty 7b: not guilty 8: not guilty 8b: not guilty 9: not guilty 9b: not guilty 10: not guilty 10b: not guilty

CNN.com - Study: New study shows that fellatio may reduce the risk of breast cancer - Oct. 2, 2003

Welcome home, Marty.

Happy Birthday Harvey Keitel.

When you're dealing with a store like this, they're insured up the ass. They're not supposed to give you any resistance whatsoever. If you get a customer, or an employee, who thinks he's Charles Bronson, take the butt of your gun and smash their nose in. Everybody jumps. He falls down screaming, blood squirts out of his nose, nobody says fucking shit after that. You might get some bitch talk shit to you, but give her a look like you're gonna smash her in the face next, watch her shut the fuck up. Now if it's a manager, that's a different story. Managers know better than to fuck around, so if you get one that's giving you static, he probably thinks he's a real cowboy, so you gotta break that son of a bitch in two. If you wanna know something and he won't tell you, cut off one of his fingers. The little one. Then tell him his thumb's next. After that he'll tell you if he wears ladies underwear. I'm hungry. Let's get a taco. - Harvey Keitel as Mr. White in Reservoir Dogs (1992).

We've found him.

Since 1990 I've had the GOOCH-1 license plate. The hyphen-one was because someone else had the GOOCH plate. I've heard of sightings from various people, but never anything confirmed. YMike found the man with the plate that rightfully belongs to me and took pictures of the plate and the man, who was undoubtedly confused as to why someone was taking his picture. On the other hand, the man might have seen YMike taking the pictures with his camera and said to himself "Wow... Asians take pictures of everything."

Good catch and good eye, YMike.

News4Jax.com - News - Weatherman Says He Was Framed By False Claims
I've never trusted the fucking weatherman and look at this guy try to explain his attempted dealings with a 14 year-old. Look at the related stories about weathermen accused of shit.

Why Is Chappelle's Show at a Halt? Not Because of Drugs, an Aide Says - New York Times

Why Is Chappelle's Show at a Halt? Not Because of Drugs, an Aide Says - New York Times

FindLaw: Cybersquatting: What It Is and What Can Be Done About It

Thanks, G-Mo for the link.

Fifteen-Pound Burger exists in PA.

Here is the letter from Sara Rue's attorney's in .pdf (Acrobat) form:

http://www.goochonline.com/rarasue.pdf

Keep in mind that I put up a fan site and this is her response. I would have just given her the domain name... i clearly had no intention of profitting from it.

RARA SUE

Sorry for the lack of updates. I received a letter from attorneys representing the actress Sara Rue. Apparently some three years ago I purchased the sararue.com domain name. I put up a web page for her, a fan site inviting anyone else to design a fan site because I didn't want to be seen as a "cybersquatter."

Well, Sara Rue has actually sicced attorney's on me demanding that I take down the site and transfer ownership to her representation or she will seek damages from me. I don't understand the damages an actress feels she suffered that someone was conscientious enough to purchase her domain name for her and put up a site for her. I'm not some pornographer in Zimbabwe that she could have never, ever found. I'm a guy in Portland that would have given it to her for the asking. I'm not sure why she (through her attorneys) is talking to me like my buying sararue.com three years ago was an act of hostility towards her. Also, how could I possibly be profitting from a fan site for an actress? I had a link to this website on the page I put up, but I don't profit from this endeavor.

Here's the page that Sara Rue is going to sue me for. I thought I was too old to deal with this shit. However, when I do someone a favor, in a sense, and she treats me like an asshole, then I'll become an asshole. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Sort of.

I published the letter from the law firm, but there's a paragraph that says they'll punish me legally if I put the letter on the internet.

Geez, they've got me by the balls. I want to see how a lawsuit against the publisher of a fansite pans out. Here's a legal notice: Any letters sent to any email address meant for me to read will be posted on this site.

GOOCH:pissed.
http://www.sararue.com

Big post coming. Birthday Hiatus in effect.

Boyee.

GOOCH

GOOCH: True Troutdale Conversations
[Neighbor comes over to clean my carpets]

Gooch: Hey, there's pop in the fridge. I've also got some booze to mix it with, if you want.

Neighbor: Oh... I can't do that.

Gooch: Why not?

Neighbor: I just got out of AA.

Gooch: Oh, that's cool. Do you want a beer, then?

Nice. Carpets are cleaned and my neighbor is still on the wagon, despite my efforts.

I was watching the end credits for a movie today and it dawned on me that everyone involved in the movie is given credit. The caterers, the assistants, the madams. Everyone. The film industry is the most self adoring, self congratulatory industry in the world. People make fun of them because they give themselves so many awards (Oscars, Emmys, Golden Globes, Blockbusters) for merely doing their jobs. I think it's funnier that the production company's delivery drivers get credit. Can you imagine if every industry was so interested in giving everyone involved in every detail of a job credit?

"Hey, Bill... thanks for installing my tires"

"No problem, George. By the way, the coffee in the waiting room was provided by Folgers, our fleet vehicles are all Fords, The uniform I'm wearing today was purchased from Acme Uniforms... all hemming was performed by my wife, Suzie..."

Anyways, just something that crossed my mind. Three days until April 19, my 31st birthday.

GOOCH:old

You might be the Gooch...

If you've ever ran up a $350 cell phone bill...
If your car's tags are more than three months expired...
If your last breakfast was Easy Mac macaroni and cheese...
If you receive two phone calls in the same day that the caller asks "Did I wake you..."
If both people above did indeed wake you.
If you've ever uttered the words "Wait for this Viagra to kick in..."
If you've gone to a bar for the specific purpose of getting thrown out...
If you've waited six hours for a DVD to copy rather than spend $10 for a legal copy...
If you've barbecued breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and midnight snacks consecutively...
If you've jerked off to Denise Austin or the Spanish Channel because you were too lazy to put a porn in the DVD player...
If you've said "I'm in to scrapbooking" in an effort to get a girl's phone number...
If you've watched four straight hours of Curb Your Enthusiasm...
If you've watched six straight hours of Kojak...

Do you think Charles and Camilla registered at Harrod's?

Another sex etiquette question: How long after sex is it okay to turn on the television? I've got one of those wall mount TVs with a DVD player loaded with season one of Kojak. If we're not having any discussion and/or she falls asleep, can I pull my arm from around her and fire up the CNN? Would that be considered rude?Fuck, dating's complicated.

Oh, and godforfuckingbid anyone should break away from coverage of the Prince Charles-Camilla Parker Boyle wedding. I didn't get an invitation, but I did get them a present. A bundle of paper sacks, his and her ski masks, you get the idea. How can those two fuck? I know we export wheat, Burger King, and mediocre fashions over there... how about we send over an orthodondist or two? And don't get me started on the stupid hat thing.

Happy birthday to Greg Moore. His party is tonight.

GOOCH:out

If you're having sex and your phone rings, when do you check to see who has called. During a one-night-stand I actually looked at the caller ID during coitus because I was waiting for a call. If it's someone you have true feelings for like a girlfriend, wife, or that trainer from the gym... what's the etiquette for reaching over and checking who called?

I'm barbecuing every goddamned meal I've eaten the last couple of days. Peep this monster on my patio:



I should just stay home tonight. I'll probably go out. I crave attention from random people in an effort for validation.

GOOCH:pathetic.

Mitch Hedberg: 1968-2005 One of the funniest comedians ever. A true original even if in the vein of Steven Wright's style of non-sequitur observational comedy. I'm truly bummed that he passed away. News article... click HERE

Johnnie Cochran: 1937-2005 - Not since Harriet Tubman has a person led more black people to freedom. Do you think that when Cochran get to (ahem) Heaven he'll run into Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman and have a really fucking awkward moment?

Terry Schiavo: 1963-2005 - A normal brain looks like a cauliflower, her brain looked like a cauliflower left in the sun for a week. She didn't have any idea what was going on. I'm guessing the doctors that stated that Schiavo's responses to outside stumuli were somewhat random brain synapses and not true awareness of the world around her were probably right. She had the Bushes on her side, claiming that all life is precious. Doesn't Texas and Florida have and exercise with regularity the death penalty? Didn't Jeb Bush used to brag about "Old Sparky," Florida's loveable and sometimes malfunctioning electric chair? They should have just froze Terri and postponed all of the drama to a later time. Cloned her... do something.

It's come to my attention that the greatest thing I ever wrote has become pertinent to my life again: The Breakup Column

Cliff Claven had a bit part in Empire Strikes Back. I had no idea. Click HERE for article

Day before yesterday I spent three hours and used two different password cracking/retrieval tools to get the administrator password for my shop computer. It was useless without it since I deleted the only user account I'd used on the system. Three hours... I tried every password I could think of. I finally used a service that allows me to upload the encrypted password as retrieved from a bootable floppy disk and then after a couple of hours sends me a link to a web page with my password listed.

What password did I unravel after three hours of guessing/retrieving? What was the wicked smart barrier keeping me from doing my job?

Administrator Password: gooch

Mother Fucker.

Back to the grill again. I bought a sweet ass barbecue today. I saw the guys loading it into my Ford; it looked like a struggle. "How much does that thing weigh" I inquired.

"Oh, about 240 pounds."

So in my truck it'll stay until I can get a friend to help me get it out of my rig. I can't fucking wait to grill again.

Sunday night was so bad for me in terms of a relapse alcoholic bender that I ended up having to buy flowers for a girl, which hasn't happened since I got drunk and became an asshole last May. I'm becoming disoriented as of late... I'm never sure what day it is and when I wake up I'm not sure where I'm at. I can't remember if things occured today, yesterday, or two days ago. I actually said to someone "Today's Monday" yesterday. I met an attractive girl a few weeks ago and hung out with her Tuesday night. I found out from a mutual friend that the girl is a Gemini and I now refuse to date her. When did I start to give a shit about that? Oh, I know... it's when I realized that every nut job girl in my life - whether friend or someone I've dated - is, in fact, a gemini. Something to think about. Or not. I'm not putting too much thought into anything.

EARLY MORNING PHOTOS ARE BACK!

Mad props to Gregster for helping me during my panicked attempt to get the password protection off of my webserver. Just a little glitch I incurred during a server upgrade. This Bud's for you, yo.

GOOCH:same as it ever was.

They're roasting Jeff Foxworthy on Comedy Central. I haven't seen it yet, but I'm not too thrilled that "redneck" comedy has made a comeback. The jokes are all pretty much the same. I get it... you've got appliances and/or a car in your overgrown front lawn. I get it... you date your sister. Ooh! you've all got catch phrases - can we hear them a thousand times during your act? A funny joke in the teasers is Larry the Cable Guy saying that Jeff Foxworthy's show wasn't funny... that "Roots" was funnier than the Jeff Foxworthy show. I'm sure a lot of people from the South think that "Roots" was in fact a comedy and not a drama.

GOOCH:single

Watched Airport 1975 and Boston Strangler on American Movie Classics this weekend. Both starred George Kennedy, the greatest action actor of all fucking time.

I like the term "lactose intolerant" almost as much as "carbohydrate addict." Like if a restaurant owner is lactose intolerant, he might make milk deliveries come through a separate door. lactose segregation would require milk to be stored in less desirable coolers. People who are lactose intolerant might burn crosses in the parking lots of dairies. This is how my brain works. I'm Gooch, and I'm a fucking idiot.

I need my glasses this morning. I can't see the screen on which I'm typing this. I hope there are no typos, as my tapping on this keyboard is merely making the gray haze on the white screen get larger the longer I type.

GOOCH:blind

Police bust suspected drug house

I've drank at this house and played pool in the garage which apparently was later turned into a meth lab. I've partied with the homeowner's ex-wife and ex-girlfriend. Not since the Gina Hoesly incident have i felt so close to the news.

I'm on sort of a Xanax bender this week. Really need to get stabilized. Blahblahblah. Working in the office, watching Rocky. Good stuff. I'm tired but I can't sleep. Gonna go to a watering hole, grab a Red Bull and read a technical manual as I fall asleep.

Gooch:who cares.

Holy shit. I'm perpetually tired now. I worked 86 hours from last Thursday to Wednesday, two days ago. Relationship is in shambles, I haven't talked to any of my friends, I've no energy to do anything, yet I've got plenty to do. I need to go tanning, buy hair products and get a haircut tomorrow.

While I'm at it, I'll go shopping for a new dress. Jesus, what have I become?

I saw one of those "Carbohydrate Addicts" books floating around. Can you imagine an actual carbohydrate addict? I picture a guy on a street corner offering to trade hand jobs for sugar packets. Guys selling their televisions for $10 so they can buy a loaf of bread and a bag of C&H. People going on carb benders. Sweet.

I've got to go... I'm going to suck some dick for a shot of corn syrup and a pixie stick. I'm addicted to Carbs!!!

Get it?

I've worked my ass off for the last few days. I personally moved 36 computers, monitors, mice, keyboards, and peripherals from three offices to one consolidated office for a company. On Friday I worked 18 hours straight of manual labor. At 2am I found myself pushing a cart load of monitors thinking that Christ had it better when he was carrying his own cross. Where's Mel Gibson when I need him. The Passion of the Gooch... indeed.

Fuck it, I'm tired, going to bed.

GOOCH:out

What the fuck. It's midnight? I'm in my neon lit office working on the same laptop for about six hours (two billable) merely for the sake of learning and troubleshooting. It's a good thing, I'd probably be drunk right now. My drunken antics at night yield better stories than my tech support antics. I'm watching the Ashlee Simpson show right now. I'm actually going to have to work eight-hour days starting Thursday through Monday.

Now that I have real couches in my living room, I've lost the excuse to get girls to watch television upstairs in the bedroom because you couldn't sit on the futon for more than ten minutes at a time withour incurring injury or at least having your ass fall asleep. It's the end of an era:

IF YOU'RE WATCHING THIS TV AT NIGHT, YOU'LL PROBABLY BE WATCHING IT IN THE MORNING.

Speaking of my mattress, I need to get another one. I don't think you can just throw away my old one. it'll have to be burned or something. God, the fumes from the lube (silicon and water based), scented massage oils, and the pheromones alone might cause an air quality advisory.

I've been watching a lot of television lately. A lot of commercials about hounding the fuck out of your kids during their free time to keep them from drugs and alcohol. Hey, parents, I've got a tip to keep kids off drugs: Lock your liquor cabinet, get your bong off of the coffee table, and hide your fucking coke better.

Also on the TV tip: Sunday night I watched King of the Hill and Simpsons. KoH was about an overbearing, obnoxious Hispanic gentleman who gets in a fight with his wife and somewhat forces his stay at the Hill Household and imposes on their family. The Simpsons was about Homer becoming an ordained minister. Both plotlines paralleled episodes of my own life within the last eight months.

Drunk Gooch is the best: I was just cleaning out the kitchen a bit and found a 7-11 sack with two hot dog boxes, a twinkies wrapper (you fat fuck), a Maxim Magazine and a Rock Star energy drink. I don't remember purchasing any of this stuff. The Maxim and Rock Star came in handy tonight. What a pleasant surprise. Drunk Gooch needs his own credit card, though.

I'm in a really good mood right now. I know it's artificial, probably from the caffeine I just consumed. I'm supposed to go on "stabilizing" drugs to keep my moods normal. I'm supposed to avoid coffee and alchohol, which is like taking an ice-pick to the Bubble-Boy's life giving plastic shell. I'm fucking freaking out. If I really start to freak out, I'm going to hire Rodney Gooch to assassicate me. The only cool ways to die are to be assassinated, or to die while pulling kids out of a burning orphanage. I'm likely going to die from an untreated case of syphilis because I was too lazy to open up my health insurance packet. Not a cool way to go, but if it's good enough for Al Capone... what the fuck, right?

I thought we were invincible. But now I know that the things that people in love do to each other, they remember. And if they stay together, it's not because they forget. It's because they forgive.

CNN.com - Hoaxer targets army wife with false death call - Feb 22, 2005

CNN.com - Author Hunter S. Thompson commits suicide - Feb 21, 2005

Holy fucking shit. YMike in California called me and asked if I'd seen any news. I thought he was going to tell me about Sandra Dee passing away at 63, after which I'd call him a fag. Wow, shocking.

Meanwhile, I've been working a lot as usual. Trying to maintain a relationship... counseling in the near future. Did help my girlfriend's kid urinate into a urinal for the first time. I held him by the shoulders and aimed him, which is the exact technique that my friends have used When I'm too drunk to piss on my own but not to honorably pass out.

Victory is ours!

I traded my badass leather zero-gravity recliner for my Mom's furniture set. My living room is looking less bachelor like, with the exception of the Scarface and Goodfellas posters.

Big shout out to Rodney Gooch, my crazier and blacker fraternal twin brother:

Ice Cube is playing the next XXX? Quite the departure from Vin Diesel. I mean, I'm the biggest Cube fan out there, but what does XXX denote anyway? Ice Cube's T-shirt size? No one with a build like mine should be an action hero in the movies.

Meanwhile, I'm going nuts with this cold. My fever is gone, Theraflu is God. Anyway, Fat Tuesday tonight. It's the one night a year where I can live like I normally do, but with an excuse.

GOOCH:I got nothing