GOOCH: TRUE CONFESSIONS

I was at the cologne counter at a major department store last night when the clerk asked me if I was a Survivor fan. I, with all sincerity, responded with:

"You mean those guys who sang 'Eye of the Tiger' in Rocky?"

I really have my finger on the pulse of pop-culture, don't I?

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www.goochonline.com will offer free Vicodin just to get through the columns page.

I'm working the lights tomorrow night at the Perfect in Plastic show: Ash Street Saloon at 10:30pm.

Pretty Good Joke (as retold by Gooch):

Ethel and Jed lived in the same nursing home for a number of years and had recently become "intimate." Unfortunately, Jed couldn't move too well, so Ethel would give him sexual gratification through the means of a "hand job."

This romance went on for a while until one day when Ethel walked in on Jed and Velma together - Velma was servicing Jed with her hand much in the same way that Ethel normally would.

Ethel yelled at Jed and Velma for ten minutes and finally turned to Jed and asked:

"What does Velma have that I don't?!?!?"

Jed looked up, smiled a bit and said "Parkinson's."

Gooch: The Health Update: Got a flu shot yesterday and I didn't pass out; Fake Jagermeister tattoo from last week's DFiVE9 show has almost completely worn off; Nasty gash on left index finger from the flat-tire incident has officially become infected; Five minutes prior to writing this, I cut myself shaving; I slept from 5:30pm to 7:30pm yesterday, and again from 11:30pm to 6:30am this morning, missing the first in-office Jam Magazine meeting since... um... a long time. I bought an ad for this website from another site, we'll see how it affects my stats.

Time for work. I'm sure this is one of those "who gives a shit" logs that I'm about to post. Nope, I'm definitely sure. In fact, I'm commanding you right now to go back to your usual web-fare, which is likely something like www.midgetamputeeporn.com or www.clownsmut.org.

I haven't forgotten about you, you little bastards. It'll take more than terrorist attacks to make me forget about you. Someday (and it will happen) when people start worrying about scandals again, I'll be writing about you demented fucks.

Somewhere O.J. is on a golf course wishing the terrorist attacks occured in '94.

Someone tell me what's more depressing: the movie Saving Private Ryan, Whoopie Goldberg being on television at all, or the Raiders losing to the Seahawks.

Television is depressing.

DFiVE9 is playing at the Satyricon on Saturday.
Hotboxed is playing at the Paris tonight.

My car lost an important component to its overall function: the air in the passenger side front tire.
Subaru makes a great car but a shitty jack. Had to call AAA and wait for a tow truck to come... "between 30 and 45 minutes" from when I made the call.

Dispatcher: "Are you in a safe place?"
Me: "If I'm not, will it make the tow truck come any fucking faster?"

Actually, the tow truck came out pretty quickly. Now I've got one of those goofy "doughnut" wheels on my car. The damaged tire/wheel is in my passenger seat, wrapped in a seat belt. Big speaker boxes in the trunk are really cool until you realize that your spare tire is underneath that audio monstrosity.

Shit.