My Wife is 4 Months Pregnant and my Son is 7 Months old.

Shit is fucking crazy dawg.

I look at all the good I got going on in my life right now, after everything, after all the mis-steps and dumbass mistakes. I don't want to be the waiting for the other shoe to drop too good to be true guy so I'm just taking it a day at a time and trying to be grateful and patient and be good to my wife and all that. You know. I don't got to explain it. Oh and I'm still acting if you can believe that shit. Later you heavy poops.

My wife is 7 and a half months pregnant. Bless the baby angel that is in charge of days like today.

I had an idea for an Inflatable arm swimmy but repurposed as a baby air bag helmet. 

For use in or out of the pool.

Pay attention to Jordan Peterson. 

Sort yourself out Bucko, eh?

"We couldn't even say let's try and support the family...(ibid) traditional family"

1:17:30 - 1:18:49

https://youtu.be/Nyw4rTywyY0

FOR BABIES

I found a pretty good tablature site that has all kinds of Substance-era stuff, including Bizarre Love Triangle (New Order, if you don't know it you should start with their 1987 album, it's a great jumping off point for the stuff that comes both before and after). I was picking away at that for a long time until I realized how late it was. Anyhow, I think Peter Hook gets way less credit than he should as an innovative bassist. 

Get tablature for: Bizarre Love Triangle - New Order. You're welcome.

Fact: Wifey has a complex appetite/appreciates/taste for good food. My base tastes are pretty ghetto 

(I could eat Ore-Ida shredded hash browns three meals a day)

Bless the baby angel that is in charge of days like today

Recent recurring thought: That episode of Punk'd where Bernie Mac gets a manicure, goes through a McDonalds drive thru and refuses to be Punk'd. We miss you Mac-Man. Also: Ashton Kutchers awful Steve Jobs movie. 

Favorite Play: William Zielinski's "Rum and Vodka" by Conor McPherson

Best wife sentence for week of 9/10-9/16 : "You have a really selfish idea of how to die from Helicopters."

I went into the living room of my friends house and tried to read a coffee table book about limousines, but just got depressed and went home.

If this was 2004 and I had a Donald Trump themed party, I could fly away in a helicopter while the party went bankrupt.

It's really boring and deflating. Our categories of thought are so goddamn few and impoverished. You'd think anyone ever talks about...just go on Facebook. Hang out at the bar I work at.

It's been a good week so far, yeah. 

I'm going to Carlisle for two days.

Wifey is so pregnant, she's so sore and tired. 

God bless her.

FIGHT STORM

FIGHT STORM AMAZING FILM

 

Interior Pudding Factory. Chance Chaser runs from his enemies. But Not because He’s a fucking wimp and can’t beat them up. It’s all part of a plan. His plan. He has all the proof of the crime in his hands. But He made photo copies of the proof.

 

CRIMINAL GANG: (to CHANCE CHASER) Stop right there Chance! Hold IT! I mean it! STOP YOU MOTHERFUCKER! FUCKING HOLD UP! JESUS H. FUCKING CHRIST POPSICLE STICKS STOP! HOW MANY GODDAMN WAYS DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO HOLD UP! I HAVEN'T BEEN RUNNING ALL WINTER SO MY CARDIO IS NOT THAT GOOD, ALSO, SOMETIMES, WHEN I HAVE A DRINK I HAVE A CIGARETTE, WHICH HAS BEEN ALOT THIS WINTER. IT'S BEEN A ROUGH WINTER. YOU CAN RELATE RIGHT? WELL MAYBE THIS WILL GET YOUR ATTENTION!

 

The leader of the Criminal gang, Petrov Vishnek Diabolovski, 47, pulls out a sweet ass nickel plated Heckler and Koch .45 

 

He chambers a round and squeezes off a hot slug. We follow the bullet’s trajectory like in bullet time, but not bullet time from the Matrix because we’re not getting sued, as it nicks the corrugated, scaffold like, elevated walkway that zig-zags, maze-like, through the seemingly endless vats of pudding. The bullet ricochets off the metal right  near Chance Chaser’s boot.

 

PETROV: GIVE ME THE PROOF.

 

CHANCE: (throws the briefcase into a vat of delicious chocolate pudding) It’s in the pudding. (He takes out a grappling hook gun with his right hand while he throws a flashbang/smokebomb at the criminal gang)

 

Via con Dios you stupid pieces of shit.

 

(He fires the grappling gun through the skylight. Bits of the window and moonlight rain down in a dance of shattered glass and enchanting lunar luminescence. Chance is ejected 30 yards above the roof of the pudding factory. He deploys a parachute that he used to use for BASE jumping and all other kinds of super cool shit, and glides safely, expertly to a ZODIAC boat in the river next to the pudding factory where his accomplice/data expert/paramour/international bikini model is.

INTRO CREDITS - MISSION IMPOSSIBLE STYLE

A Failed Attempt at the Beginning of a Small Western Play Ideal for a Fringe Piece! by a currently Unemployed Actor in Philadelphia.

A small orange light begins to glow downstage center, like the warm glowing embers of a small campfire, on its way out. Only the campfire isn’t dying, it’s fire and light are gaining in intensity.

This effect can be achieved by placing a light directly over the, let’s face it, papier-mache would even be too much to ask given the budget, “found pieces of 1x3 near the dumpster and spray painted brown” campfire, the fire ring is constructed with patio bricks from one of the actor’s backyards.

Side Note: The backyard won’t miss it - it is a shit show of weeds like stilt grass, garbage, and altissima weeds (those are the ones that smell like raw ass when you try and lop’em down by the stem.)

There are props. For the goings on. And the learnings of the lessons, and the acting of the actions, and the growings of the characters of the play, etc…

We see two cowboys, hung over hipsters, attired in western garb, which is a hodgepodge of Carhart, Dickies and Calico rags from their own personal wardrobe. Strangely apropos, with shitty Cowboy Hats. 
There is a small sticker on one of a Carebear that they just couldn’t quite scratch off.

It is Grumpy Bear.

Or perhaps Bedtime Bear. It could even be Wish Bear. Who knows? 
Garbage.

They are shit actors in a shit play. And they know it.

They saunter onto the stage.

Cowboy 1
Ah Reckon.

Cowboy 2
Ah do too.

There is a shared moment between these two men. These two vain deluded scraps of vanity. Thrown together like two faded, sunbleached bits of garbage whirling around the center of a small vortex created by the passing of a City of Philadelphia Sanitation truck on a July afternoon under I-95 where a dead body, that no one will miss, that no one will be looking for, was just dumped.

They look out. No one is there. No one is ever there. In this City. 

In this Century.

Cowboy 1
Fuck this.

Cowboy 2
I’m going to bed.

The play isn’t over, those aren’t the lines. They leave.

Gott ist tot. 
Gott bleibt tot ist. Und wir haben ihn getötet. 
Doch sein Schatten noch Webstühle. 
Wie trösten wir uns, die Mörder aller Mörder?

Lights down.

I am 33.

WOO HOO.
Nah Seriously. It's been a great year.
http://tinyurl.com/HappyBirthdayDanMcGlaughlin

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Bam.
'Till May 18th.

Come See R&J I'm Tybalt Prince of Cats

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