Aspirat primo Fortuna labori, AGAIN!!!!!

Aspirat primo Fortuna labori - Fortune smiles upon our second first effort. (Virgil)

Hey, it's been a year!

And already, totally, things in my life have changed so much because of this blog.

No, seriously.

Why are you laughing?

Totally things have totally changed. 

I don't get into philosophical bumbley-mumbley-jumbo, like who cares what the Cosmological proof for the existence of God is, or what the Scientific, Personal or Essential Causes are?!...Nerds.

I don't try to get drunk off of Listerine anymore ( rubbing alcohol, f.y.i. plebeians)

Let's hope this year is totally so much more better for God's sake than last year.

Not at all like the page numbers in "Waiting for Godot" where the first and second page would be "1...1"

"2...2" as if he was saying something like : We do something...we do it over again...we do something...

we do it over again.

Your face is a poem, sweetheart.

I love you so much.

Utter Garbage

Roxborough Philadelphia is the closest thing to the physical manifestation of Godthought, the topography of a dream as far as I'm concerned. You know subconscious ID PeckMillers. and stuff like that (ugh) I'm boring myself. Sometimes I wake up and feel like I can conquer the world. Sometimes I drop a pen and could weep because the picking that pen up seems like an impossible task, a herculean one even.

Like when Hercules had to clean those stables out. Which story was that? Nobody thinks that they're a bad person right? How do you make sure you don't get to that point where you're rationalizing some seriously dark shit? I had soup with a meat broth last night, my stomach sounded like the pipe in the ceiling of my basement in the house I grew up in on Caledonia street after Mike would take one of his 5 pounders. I remember I had my eighth grade girlfriend over one time and we were kissing, and really uncomfortable to begin with - and we just heard this *GOOSH*.

I was visiting a friend in Kennet Square, (I don't think that I'm spelling that right, and even though I'm on the internet, I'm too lazy to look it up) you know Brandywine Wyeth Country, Cornfields, Rolling Hills, Gorgeous, 1st Class. I didn't want to be rude, so I ate pretty much what they served but all night - I'm trying to talk my friend's Father about Pakistan, and the economy and I'm sure it sounded like the plumbing sound I just mentioned. "So, I don't know about Iran because" *BUGOOOSH* "Excuse me" - That wasn't flatulence. I really want to say. But you can't say that. You just can't. We went swimming later. It was freezing. To me. I think only me. Indoorsy me. And I am a pussy. I think I made the last part clear.
I'm just glad he didn't ask me about sports. For fuck's sake. That was the worst. In high school especially. Dating some of those mainline girls and their boozy golfclub fascist Dad's.

"Where you goin' to college dan?"

"Allentown..." It's almost like I'm guessing the way I say it. Like I could change it if they don't like it. Just don't punch me really hard in the neck like I can see you're thinking about doing.

"D3 but"..."you know they're still competitive"

D3? I wonder what could possibly mean? I could try and hide in the bathroom again, but I've already done that twice and the last time was for a solid 7 minutes. I can't.

"Yeah it's pretty competitive." Lot of talented people want those parts in plays.

"How bout them Phils?"

I know that Von Hayes played on the Phillies. And Mike Schmidt. And...John Kruk he has one testicle?

Anyway it wasn't that bad last night.

How you guys doing?

Yeah I took down Pods of Speech No.7 for two reasons. The Girl that I was having a conversation with objected to being on the podcast WITHOUT her PERMISSION. She also didn't think that it was appropriate that I was airing out dirty laundry from our personal life. I already got some email complaints - so I apologize. I will make number eight much better. I promise. And I apologize to Ms. Linn for using her voice without permission.

I am, however going to keep talking endless shit, just not about anything in that area anymore, apparently.

Y'all be good now ya'hear.

Happy Fourfajooly

I will be at the Great Blue Heron Festival this weekend. 

Pods of Speech No.6 will be posted this Monday 7/6/2009. 

Have a happy, safe, and fun Fourth of July with your loved ones.

America is still the best f*cking country in the g-damn world. 

Seriously. 

I'll see you guys soon.

A Drunk American Adapts the Gettysburg Address as a Birthday Toast for His Brother in a European Dance Club

A Drunk American Adapts the Gettysburg Address as a Birthday Toast for His Brother in a European Dance Club by Thomas McGlaughlin Jr.

One score and eight years ago, our founding father brought forth on this continent a new Broheim, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal-- but that some women are created more equal than others. Sorry, Angelina Jolie. 

My brother Dan has never found you that attractive. But if Uma Thurman happens to be in the audience, please call me. 

I may be able to arrange something for you two.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, or something ..... unless Bush was lying .... which, come to think of it, is not only very possible but EXTREMELY LIKELY. Whatev. Now we are engaged in a great civil party, testing whether one man, my brodey Dan, or any man so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure without the benefits of Uma Thurman, Gwyneth Paltrow, Cameron Diaz, or any other appropriately breathtaking tall blonde with about $10 million dollars in the bank and the inexplicable need for rare, probably illegal pleasures. Ladies and women, we are met on a great battle-field of that war. But not war exactly. More like, "the great floor of an outdated Zurich disco." The point is that we have come to dedicate a portion of that Disco, as a final resting place for those who here--- and I'm thinking of Dan very particularly --- who want to give their lives or even just bodies to a pretty cool dude that this nation might be a better, cooler, altogether more awesome place. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this, is it not?

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- Danny Boy. We are his Bros. That would be gay and weird and what not. Uma Thurman, Heather Graham, Cate Blanchett, et cetera, that's where you come in. The brave women, living and dead, who struggled here, on many long nights throughout the 70s and early 80s, have consecrated this fine dance floor, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what Dan would like to do here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored ladies we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these women shall not have come to this creepy vestige of the Bee Gees in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. And that Dan may have a really cool birthday. Shots!

Car Anagrams from 6:36 - 7:24 a.m.

Toyota = A Tooty

Orator = To Roar

McDonalds = Ms. Cold Dan

Infiniti = In I fit in

Terminator = To re-mint, ra!

The Proposal = Shat-o Peopl-r

Ford Escort = Fred R. Scoot

Yaris = Ya, sir!

Hollywood Tans = O to wholly sand

Coffee = Fec ofe

Schuylkill = Chu Killsly

Viewfinder = Vin, Few Die

Safe Auto = U Eat Sofa

Mountain Dew = Um, No, Ain't Wed

The Seafarer

Bill Zielinski's bartending Brendan in The Arden's 2000 production of 

The Weir didn't have a story to tell. 

He was always debatin' 

It's almost as if this story has been nine years coming.

Whereas the haunted inhabitants of Conor McPherson's The Weir were haunted houses, plagued by loss and regret, just below unrequited love or obsession in the hierarchy of torments, Mr.Zielinski's character is put upon by forces of mephistophelean caliber.

David O'Connor's production notes quote the text of the old Anglo-Saxon poem, The Seafarer: "Wretched and anxious, in the paths of exile, lacking dear friends, hung round by icicles, while hail flew past in showers" describes the psychological touchstone of the play.

So it's only fitting to have Mr Zielinski return to the central role of James "Sharky" Harkin in Conor McPherson's latest opus The Seafarer  at the Arden Theatre Company. 

Considering Mr. Zielinsk's familiarity with McPherson and McPherson's affinity for Mamet, William Zielinski's portrayal of Sharky was a perfect fit - the engine of the play: always ready to clean the detritus left by winos out of the alley or prepare a meal of smoked salmon and soda bread.

The cast was rounded out by the expert talents of veteran Philly actors Anthony Lawton (Ivan Curry), Greg Wood (Mr. Lockheart) who never fails to deliver, Brian Russell (Richard Harkin, Barrymore anyone?) and Joe Hickey (Nicky Giblin). 

Having lived in Ireland, in LaHinch (O'Looney's was a favorite drinking spot after surfing) I can tell you that Mr. Hickey's portrayal of the strained, garrulous, and hyper-active Giblin was brilliant, spot-on, excellent.

McPherson's character's unravel slowly, reveal gradually, just as the characters of the Weir were contained, bursting at the seams, (from the Old English wer, to damn up); the wretched and anxious characters here endure the cold psychic wind of the titular Seafarer. Watching them come back to shore is the drama. See this play.

28 pt.2