Open letter to porn movie script writers: I can't believe that, in this day and age, porn movies still attempt to maintain a plot line. Some even go so far as to throw in plot twists and character development.

Character development? If I don't need to know a girl in order to have sex with her, I sure as fuck don't need to know her to jerk off to her. I think the Fast-Forward Button manufacturing industry is throwing money at porn film makers to keep the weak plots and bad dialog from the cutting room floor. Christ... I was watching some smut last night and this couple was throwing out quotes from Confucious, Socrates, etc... just stop it. Don't insult my intelligence. Or my fast-forward button

I'm meeting some people for happy hour this afternoon. My entire life is one big happy hour. Happy hour is a phenomenon in existence as an excuse for the working person to drink before going home to the spouse and kids. I remember the good old days when a spouse and kids were reason enough to drink.

My Mom just had her gall bladder removed using a laprescopic procedure. This means that instead of a large incision and two days in the hospital, I'm going to be picking her up seven hours after her surgery.

I, on the other hand, had my appendix removed and instead of getting one of those progressive doctors I got the Black Hand of Death with his fucking scalpel likely sanitized over an open flame. I've got a scar on my gut that increases and decreases in its enormity as I gain and lose weight and I spent two nights in misery at the hospital.

Opinions are like people... they're all assholes.

- Michael P. Henry

Before there was GoochOnline, there was Gooch and Mike: The Column. Mike Henry is in town from Vice City and we're tearing up Portland the only way we know how: Losing at pool and picking up on the chicks that beat us at pool. It's the most fun I've had in a long time, dammit.

Next stop for me is Idaho where I'm going to continue to get my ass kicked at pool.

Get your "I [club] baby seals" sticker today! In the Merch section above

You... Dumb... Fuck...
Damon Stoudamire arrested for drug possession

...[Metal] Detector set off [by] Stoudamire [as he] was preparing to board a plane for New Orleans when he placed a plastic bag wrapped in aluminum foil and other personal belongings into a tray after they set off an airport metal detector.

Security officials summoned police, who asked Stoudamire what was in the aluminum foil. He responded: "You know what it is," the report states...

Yeah, they'd know what it is Damon because you've surpassed Isiah Rider as the KING OF ALL POT SMOKERS in Portland. Congratufuckinglations. You know what's dumber than taking illegal drugs wrapped in ALUMINUM FOIL through a metal detector? The Blazers are going to send Damon to rehab. The concept of going to rehab for marijuana "addiction" was a joke in the movie Friday but is real life in the Blazers organization. Maybe I should go to jerking-off rehab or Grand Theft Auto rehab? Is there a stupidity rehab? Damon graduated out of the same high school system that I did. I guess marijuana addiction is one of the unavoidable pitfalls of athletic success. I haven't even smoked marijuana since becoming unemployed because I DON'T WANT TO BE AN UNEMPLOYED GUY SMOKING POT. Now... last weekend was an absolute fucking alcohol bender. Morning, day, noon, night.... beer, beer, beer, Bacardi. And I loved every minute of it, baby.

Speaking of a healthy lifestyle... I've gotten a couple of sessions at Colin Hoobler Physical Training in northwest Portland. Good stuff, great trainers. Tell them that John Gallucci (that's me) sent you so I can get free sessions.

Gooch: back online.

I actually built a server to host my ever growing logs. However, I've given up on the godforsaken Unix emulator shell solution that the people at Blogger threw at me and have resorted to hosting this site on their server and not mine.

I've got to get the fuck out of this house and into the gym. I'll get into character and throw up a blog tonight. It'll be almost as funny as what I threw up this weekend.

Gooch.

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I'm back from Reno.

The Blogger service (through which this website's blogs are managed) was down for a while. Sorry for the lack of updates. First off: "Odin," the dog discussed in June 17th's blog, was found alive and is now happy to be home with his family. After eight days, his owners had all but given up when they got a call from someone who found him.

And now, Reno. I did go to Fantasy Girls (a strip club) in Reno. I even bought a couch dance which allowed me to spend two songs (and $40) in pre-ejaculatory bliss. My jeans will never look the same under a black light again. My wallet and balls both almost got emptied that night.

The next night, my friend Erik and I (this was our reunion tour; see The Reno Column for a summary of the last time he and I went to Reno in 1999) went drinking at Rumbullions at the Silver Legacy and the to the famous Shooters, as featured in Comedy Central's "Insomniac with Dave Attel." We closed down Shooters, ending what was later discovered to be a seven-hour bender of Jack Daniels and Cokes.

Now I'm home, where the only towels I can steal are my own.

GOOCH: THE RENO INDEX

Amount of money I won playing Blackjack:
$55

Commission a brothel pays a cabby for bringing in clients:
20%

Price of a hot dog and a pint of draft domestic beer at Cal Neva:
$1.50

Amount of time spent in sound check before the "pool party" at the Sands Regency:
5 hours

Percentage of speakers working during the pool party:
87.5

Number of push-ups I did during entire trip:
60

Number of peel & eat shrimp I ate at the Harrah's buffet
39

Number of emails in my inbox when I got home:
368

Number of non-spam messages:
14