May 18, 2016

The Beach Boys have been performing this great song for the better part of forty years, and for all that time, and the changes in line-up and arrangements the song still holds up, Whaddaya think?

Here’s the original release from 20/20 (1968). BTW, that unique sound in the intro isn’t a fuzz guitar or keyboard, it’s Dennis Wilson’s drumbeat highly compressed and distorted to sound all fuzzy. Awesome.

And an earlier version that was never released. I really like Brian’s falsetto and the grungy Carl Wilson lead. A little more primitive sounding than what was eventually released, but I think it has a lot more soul.

Here’s what it sounded like in the early ’70s, with Daryl “The Captain” (of Captain and Tennille fame) Dragon on keyboards, no less! Notice Dennis Wilson is on vocals, not behind the drums. After injuring his hand in an accident while drunk (that was Dennis!) he was replaced on drums by Ricky Fataar.

Here’s a 1980 version featuring a very solid Dennis Wilson backing beat. No one could pound the skins like Dennis could.

Here’s the studio version of their 50th anniversary “comeback” in 2012.

…aaaand, finally, here’s the live version they played during their 50th anniversary tour. Note the distinct four-bar break they added between the final verse and chorus. It’s very powerful and nicely done. I absolutely adore it.

Years may come and years may go, but it just goes to show you can’t keep a great song down.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 02:30 | Comments (0)
May 17, 2016

Congratulations to Jason Day for yet another commanding performance at The Players. While it’s not a tournament I particularly enjoy watching – I think TPC Sawgrass, Pete Dye’s supposed masterpiece, is nothing more than a bunch of tricked-up holes strung together – Day, much like Jordan Spieth, is a fascinating golfer to watch.

…and speaking of TPC Sawgrass, one would think that an organization that spends untold millions of dollars endlessly and shamelessly promoting itself and its supposed virtues (total bullshit if you ask me) could find a few sheckels to allow the players to at least putt on greens that were, er, green. But no, the PGA Tour, just like its prickly (in every sense of the term) outgoing commissioner Tim Finchem, just had to show the players who was boss rather than focus on what was best for the overall quality of play.

Watching this is pretty painful. Not only is Tiger as stiff as a board, but he hit all three shots the same distance, as if it wasn’t possible for him to hit it another ten yards further.

Look how far we’ve come in 45 years.

As the saying goes, physician, heal thyself.

But….but… isn’t it far more important to spend days of media coverage on something Donald Trump might have sais or done twenty-five years ago?

I wonder if Burlington College is now “feelin’ the Bern”

I guarantee you that if Republicans privatized airline security this would be covered 24/7 on all the news networks. The TSA is a disgrace – a bloated, incompetent, and ineffectual agency that’s the absolute poster child for big government.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 02:31 | Comments (0)
May 14, 2016

[Ed. note: since this year’s Goodboys Exec-Comm has been (for lack of a better term) a little delayed in revealing its plans for the 2016 Goodboys Invitational weekend, Goodboys Nation weblog sent a reporter (call him “Woodward”) to meet with a certain someone (call him “Earl E. TeeTimes”) with serious connections to the Exec-Comm inner circle. In the spirit of “All The President’s Men” (yours truly’s all-time fave flick), we have the scoop right here on Goodboys Nation weblog.]

What’s the topic for tonight?

This year’s Goodboys Invitational weekend.

You’ll get no information from me on that.

Look, all I’m looking for is who the teams are and where we’re playing.

And you think I’m going to break trust and tell you what I know? You must be dreaming. …Or a Ted Cruz supporter.

I didn’t know there was a difference. [Awkward pause] But you do know, don’t you? And you could tell me, correct?

Well, the fact is that I do know, but if you knew what I know then you would know what I know and what I know you would then tell others what you know when right now the only one who knows is me and if you knew what I know then I wouldn’t be the only one who knows what I know. Or knew. Or whatever.

[Crickets chirping]

The Goodboys universe has always been tight-lipped about these kinds of things. I was once playing in a foursome with Ron “Cubby” Myerow – a former winner of the Goodboys Invitational, BTW – and after missing a two-foot putt he flung his putter fifty yards into the brush behind the green. Fifty yards! “The trick”, he said, “is not minding”.

Doesn’t surprise me, Ray Charles could putt better than Cubby on his best day. Look, I haven’t got time to play your chickenshit games! I need to know what you know.

[All of a sudden the haunting sound of someone whistling echoes through the parking garage. The sound slowly recedes into the deep flourescent night, leaving in its wake an eerie, unsettling silence, the humidity and stillness enveloping the two like a Hillary Clinton pantsuit.]

Did you take a cab?

Yeah. Yeah!

How do you know it was a cab?

Well, the driver wore a turban, couldn’t speak or understand a word of English, and he spent the entire time talking on his cell phone while taking me in the wrong direction. I ended up tossing him a c-note and walked here myself.

[Lights a cigarette and exhales deeply.] Forget about the aura the mainstream media has created around this year’s Exec-Comm. The fact of the matter is, these aren’t a very bright bunch of guys, and things got out of hand.

Where are the Goodboys playing this year?

[Dramatic pause] You’re going back to Plymouth. Friday at CrossWinds – that is, unless they can grease enough palms to get you all out at Pinehills again. Saturday at Indian Pond. Sunday at Waverly Oaks.

Indian Pond? Hell, that’s a private club! How on earth did Exec-Comm get the Goodboys on that track?

It wasn’t Exec-Comm – they outsourced the tee times to the team that finished last, last year – remember?

Wow. I guess even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while.

Heh. That would explain Donald Trump becoming the GOP nominee. I suppose you’re also going to be wanting to know who the teams are this year, right?

[The parking garage is quiet except for the hum of air conditioning. Earl E. TeeTimes stubs out his cigarette, exhales, and steps closer to Woodward.]

It was a “Goose” Dwyer operation from the start. Everyone is involved, that’s what happens when you start outsourcing your operations. The thought was, Exec-Comm could make a little drinking money if they put the configuration of the teams out to the highest bidder, but then the Establishment dough-ray-me came in and blew the whole operation to shreds. Here are the teams:

“Killer” Kowalski – “Possum” Shepter
“Doggy Duval” McLaughlin – “The Great White Shank” Richard
“2 Times” Proctor – “TFB” Andrusaitis
“Deuce” Doucette – “Goose” Dwyer
“Skipper” Bornemann – “Cubby” Myerow
“Vegas” Clark – “Hulkigan” Tripp

My God, they all came back. What about “Mothra”?

Mothra’s on the outside looking in, just like Bernie Sanders, minus the crazy uncle hair.

[Suddenly, there’s the sound of a car starting up and it tears out of the parking garage, its wheels squealing all the way like a bitch in heat. Woodward looks around, and Earl E. TeeTimes has disappeared.]

Sonofabitch. I wanted to ask him where we’re eating this year. Looks like I’ll have to wait until the newsletter.

Filed in: Goodboys by The Great White Shank at 02:42 | Comments (5)
May 13, 2016

This is priceless. And wholeheartedly agree!

Hat tip: Free Republic

Filed in: Politics & World Events by The Great White Shank at 01:47 | Comments (3)
May 12, 2016

It’s Thursday, and I gotta tell you it’s been one loooong week. Still, here are a few items to brighten your day. Can someone say “Weekend!”?

I like reading stories like this. It’s always good to remember that it’s the good deeds folks do out there every day in an unsung way that rarely make the news.

OK, but I’m guessing the pork spare ribs tasted awfully fresh that night!

Star Trek never looked this good. Is this cool or what? (Hat tip: Instapundit)

Sure, it was only the Oakland As – not a very good baseball team – but how ‘bot ‘dem Sawx? They’re hitting the cover the ball, they’re playing great defense, and getting decent pitching. It’s not June yet, but maybe first baseman Hanley Ramirez – is he playing a great first base or what? – is right in saying there’s something very special going on this year.

And continuing on the Sox, I’ve always enjoyed watching center fielder Jackie Bradley Jr. play. Watching him do his Willie Mays impression on both sides of the plate is a joy to watch. As is seeing second baseman Dustin Pedroia play healthy again. Oh, and how about the play of shortstop Xander Bogearts? Or third baseman Travis Shaw? Glad I ended up getting my MLB Extra Innings package from DirecTV.

It’s almost summer – time for some new surf music to add to my “Zen Surf” collection. Los Kahunas sound pretty good to me.

Finally, if you are a Goodboy committed to playing in this year’s Goodboys Invitational, you’ll be wanting to check out my next post. Could be Friday, could be over the weekend, but I guarantee you’ll find it verrrrrrry enlightening.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 04:51 | Comments (3)
May 11, 2016

Not that it means anything, but…

I can’t help but wondering what the White and the Democratic National Committee are really thinking about Hillary Clinton and her campaign’s continuing struggle to put Bernie Sanders away. Every day she looks more vulnerable, and I can’t help but thinking about that wild card FBI director James Comey is holding. At what point is a call made from somewhere, by someone big-big-BIG with just two words: “Do it.”. She’s on the ropes right now, a criminal conspiracy finding and recommendation for a grand jury to be seated would finish her off.

…as I’ve said before: if the Democrats really want the White House and therefore a continuation of Barack Obama’s legacy, shunting Madame Hillary aside and imploring Joe Biden to run with Massachusetts senator Elizabeth “Lieawatha” Warren as his running mate I think would seal the deal.

…because if Hillary Clinton survives, it doesn’t matter who she picks as a running mate, Donald Trump will beat her like a baby harp seal. Let’s face it, Hillary reminds every guy of his former wife: petty, shrill, and as phony as the southern accent she drags out every time there’s an African-American audience in front of her. Men despise her, and with good reason.

…which is why if Hillary is the nominee don’t discount the possibility of a lot – and I do mean a lot of Bernie supporters either staying home or pulling the lever for Donald Trump.

…of course, all you’ll hear between now and November in the mainstream media and the cable networks is how the Republican Party is split over Donald Trump. As if everything with the Dems is hunky-dory. Belie me, it ain’t.

They say Trump has his VP candidate list down to five or six. Me, I’m hoping he chooses either Governor Scott Walker of Wisconsin – virtually sealing the deal to take that purple state from the Dems, or Col. Allen West, who not only is a true patriot, but someone with class and dignity, and someone who is sharp as a tack.

…I’m guessing Newt Gingrich is on The Donald’s short list, but to me he’d be better suited as Chief of Staff.

…with John Bolton as his Secretary of State, Chris Christie as Attorney General, and Rudy Giuliani as head of Homeland Security. And Ivanka as whatever she wants to be.

I sure wish Mitt Romney fought as hard against Barack Obama when he ran for President as he is against Donald Trump. Hey Mitt, I have four letters for you: S-T-F-U.

…and speaking of the 2012 Republican ticket, here’s hoping challenger Paul Nehlen Eric Cantors Paul Ryan. Ryan is nothing more than your typical globalist, open-borders RINO. Time to put a Republican in the Oval Office who is America First.

Q: How many libertarians does it take to screw in a light bulb? A: None. The free market will do it. Enjoy the darkness.

[UPDATE:] Well, lookee here. Can The Great White Shank call ’em, or what? Y’know, sometimes I scare even myself with the accuracy of which I write. 🙂

Filed in: Politics & World Events by The Great White Shank at 20:48 | Comments (2)
May 8, 2016

Days until Goodboys Invitational weekend: 68
Location: Stonecreek Golf Club
Score: 50 + 51 = 101
Handicap: 25.4 / Trend: 25.2 (-0.2)

Day Two of my weekend golf odyssey began with a nice little range session where I felt ready to get out to Stonecreek Golf Club and finally do some damage. It had beaten me up more than a few times in the past, but after yesterday’s round at Superstition Springs I felt confident that this would be THE day.

An hour later: five holes, five lost balls. An ill-advised lay-up into the water on #1. My tee shot finding the same pond on #2. A sculled 5-iron into crap on the par-3 third (how’d that happen?). A pulverized drive through the fairway (and a neighbor’s fence) on #4. And an 8-iron approach shot on five that I thought I’d hit purrrrfectly but found the pond right of the green. And yet I’m still alive, courtesy of a diabolical short game and a red-hot putter, including three straight one-putts all from around twelve feet.

Jordan Spieth (actually, his name’s Connor, but he looks like the PGA Tour’s boy wonder with a swing to match), one of the two sticks I’m playing with, finishes off his Pabst Blue Ribbon, and says with a grin, “Dude, you can play this game if you can get within fifty yards of the hole!” He and his friend have country music playing in their cart, so I respond with, “Like that country song goes, ‘If Today Was a Fish, I’d Throw It Back In'”. They like that, and his partner Clay yells, “Let’s start playin’ some freakin’ golf!”

And so we do. I go bogey-par-par-bogey to rescue a 50 on the front, but after the turn I’m out of sync again. It’s not like I’m shanking balls all over the place, it just that I feel a hair off. I can’t seem to put together two good shots in a row, and the two times I do, I three-putt the green. It was just that kind of a day. A par and two bogeys on the back to close and I limp in with a 51 for a 101, just like the surf route.

While it would have been nice to break 100 (and looking at the card I see how easy it would have been to do), I’m not that disappointed. It wasn’t that long ago that on a day where I’d hit only four fairways and lost nine balls I’d be looking at somewhere around a 120, but I hung in there throughout and never once thought the mojo wouldn’t come back on my next swing. The sticks were a good bunch of guys to play with, and I’m guessing we won’t see another bright, lovely 75-degree day until the heat gods flip the switch in October. And that 101 still dropped my handicap index a smidge.

But there’s clearly still work to do. I know I fell into some old bad habits out there, playing the ball a little too forward in my stance and swaying during my backswing and not getting more vertical as Hunter Mahan advises, but that’s just being more disciplined, slowing things down a little, and making better decisions when I’m out of position. But all that comes with practice. Two weeks from now I’ll try the same two courses again and just see how it goes. By then Goodboys Invitational weekend will be less than two months away. Lord, how this year is going by fast!

Filed in: Golf Quest,Goodboys by The Great White Shank at 11:58 | Comments (0)
May 7, 2016

Days until Goodboys Invitational weekend: 69
Location: Superstition Springs Golf Club
Score: 55 + 46 = 101
Handicap: 25.7 / Trend: 25.4 (-0.3)

Fifteen feet.
Six feet of rough, two feet of fringe, seven feet of green.

On the fifth hole at Superstition Springs, a sharp 291-yard dogleg left, I’ve just finished splitting the fairway with a 190-yard 3-hybrid and getting away with a 110-yard 9-iron that landed in between two deep sand traps behind a narrow green when I really should have pulled pitching wedge, and am in a damned fine position for at worst a bogey five. I’m feeling pretty frisky about my game right now, sitting at 3 over (par, bogey, par, par) and a rocking chair one at that.

The chip I’m facing is decidedly downhill, and nothing to get too aggressive with: on the other side of the green is a sand trap, then a pond behind that. I’m not worried – after all, I’m, like, in the zone, right? Looking back, the easiest play would have been to take my putter and leave it on the green for at worst a two-putt for my bogey. But I feel good about my short game and pull my pitching wedge.

Bad idea. Shelter me from the powder in the finger, as they say.

I chunk my chip into the deep sand trap no more than two feet to my right. I know what I’m now facing – I’m the golf equivalent of Prince right now. With a downhill lie I catch too much ball with my sand wedge and it flies the green and the sand trap behind it, and lands in the pond. I take my drop and duff that one into the deep sand trap protecting the green. An out and two putts later I make a quad bogey snowman. Talk about throwing away shots.

The rest of the front nine is just bad golf, being in the wrong position – something Superstition Springs will penalize you for greatly – on every hole. I go triple-triple-double-double and limp into the clubhouse with a 55. I’m ready to call the day quits, but then I start thinking: what else am I gonna do – go back to work? So I drive over to ten, committed to going as low as I possibly can, recognizing that the back nine at Superstition Springs and The Great White Shank have never really ever seen eye to eye.

I tell myself to hang in there. After all, a little poor course management at SS goes an awfully long way, and truth be told I hadn’t been striking the ball badly at all. I par the difficult 10th hole, then, after going a little loose off the tee on the par 5 11th, I put some good iron shots together to make bogey and feel my short game finally starting to come around. I make par on the par 3 12th. After a triple-bogey on 13 (in which, attempting to get out of a deep sand trap with a 8-iron, my ball almost tore my head off when it ricocheted back at me), I par the 14th, then make a miraculous bogey on the par 3 15th with an unearthly chip from nowheresville (applause from the guys playing the adjacent hole). I then par the 16th following an unearthly 5-iron approach. With two holes to play I’m lying 32 – 32! Not half bad, eh? Unfortunately, I put two balls in the drink on the brutally tough par 5 17th for a quad bogey nine, then make a rocking-chair bogey on 18 for a crowd-pleasing 46.

The numbers don’t lie: a 55/46=101. 6 fairways hit. 27 putts. 9 holes at bogey or less (including a career-high five pars!). And all that on a brutally tough course, and on a windy day. Not a bad day’s worth of work.

Right now I feel I’m in a good spot. I’ve got a little over two months until Goodboys Invitational weekend and all the work I’ve done on my iron play over the past month is really starting to pay off. In prior years that front nine score would have done me in, but I’ve got enough confidence in my game now that I know if I just execute shots the way I need to and hang in there with my short game as it is I’m gonna be OK.

More than anything else, I’ve changed the way I approach my swing. In past years everything was about feel – the good days could be pleasant enough, but they were few and far between. With the help of Hunter Mahan’s iron-hitting philosophy from GOLF Magazine’s February 2015 issue I’ve become much more of a technical golfer. It’s like anything else: if you apply the same axiom to every shot you’ll get a predictable outcome; the only variables are the wind, the lie, and overall course conditions.

I really feel as if I’m ready to take my game to the next level, which to me is bogey golf. The only question is how and when that will happen. I’m coming on strong, y’all.

Filed in: Golf Quest,Goodboys by The Great White Shank at 01:32 | Comments (0)
May 6, 2016

So where does the campaign go from here? Hard to believe that it is the Republicans who appear to have picked their candidate before the Democrats. I mean, who could have seen that happening? But this is what happens when you have an old, worn-out retread like Hillary Clinton revealing yet again just how abysmal a candidate she really is. This is what happens when you have someone running not on their merits, but due to some perceived entitlement that it’s “her turn”, and to hell with the voters.

As I’ve said before, I still don’t see Hillary making it to the Democratic convention. There’s still the e-mail scandal lurking out there, and you just know behind the scenes there’s the fear that between the “High Energy Shock and Awe” strategy that Trump has used against a t-o-u-g-h tough Republican field and establishment that repeatedly and continually pounded him with hundreds of millions of dollars of negative ads and cable news vitriol, and Hillary’s inherent unlikeability as a candidate, that Trump will beat her like a rented mule once it becomes mano a mano.

Oh sure, all you’ll get between now and November from the cable news networks are the polls that say Clinton beats Trump, and in some cases handily. But I would caution taking those seriously, for two reasons: One, Trump has, virtually from the beginning, outperformed virtually every poll that has been taken, and over the past month, outperformed the most recent primary state polling by nearly double-digits. Which tells me there is an undercurrent of Trump support that continues to go unnoticed by the polling organizations. Two, Trump will be running against Hillary not as a Republican (that’s obvious, right?), but as a populist. And if Hillary gets the nomination I think you’re going to see significant crossover from the Bernie Sanders crowd simply on the basis of Trump being perceived as an outsider.

Finally, let me tell you a little story that may be anecdotal, may be significant. Last week, while back in Massachusetts – as blue a blue state as there is – I’m having a nitecap at the Chinese restaurant down the street from where my folks live. The bar at the Wu Loon Ming is a real townie joint, frequented by blue-collar guys and locals where the conversation drifts between the local sports teams and the typical comings and goings among the regulars. The night I was there one of the TVs was on CNN, and there’s something being shown about Trump, and the guy sitting next to me asks me if I’m for Trump. “Absolutely”, says I, “and I don’t care what anyone thinks”. An older guy the next seat down says he’s for Trump as well, but he’d never tell his wife. And one by one the others in the bar all say something similar – they’re for Trump but they’ll never admit that to their family and friends. This, in the bastion of Ted Kennedy liberal Massachusetts.

The reason behind this, I think, is something National Review’s Victor David Hanson wrote the other day:

To get a clearer idea of the feelings of Trump supporters, read the comments section following any mainstream news story that deals with race, class, and gender in politically correct fashion. A stream-of-consciousness litany of his supporters’ peeves, for good or ill, would run like this: The wrong people are in the news. Instead of generals, and small-business owners, and muscular workers, we instead see smarmy smart-asses, the pajama boys and mattress girls of the world of TV, who roll their eyes, wink about a joke only the anointed get, and smirk that what they say could have three different meanings — the Jon Stewarts, David Lettermans, and Stephen Colberts of Smug, Inc. On race, Trump supporters are tired of hearing that black lives matter, while no one mentions that all lives matter. They are sick of seeing protestors wave the flag of the country they do not wish illegal aliens to be sent back to and trash the country they under no circumstances want them to leave. They don’t like getting a letter from an IRS that employs Lois Lerner — a letter that would be ignored with impunity by those who are here illegally, or who run the Clinton Foundation. They are tired of wealthy minorities claiming they are perpetual victims of ill-treatment at the hands of people who are less well off than they. They don’t like hearing from elites that huge trade deficits have little to do with loss of jobs or that cheating by our trade partners is just a passing glitch in free trade. They cannot stand lectures from those who make more money in an hour than they do in a year about their own bad habits or slothfulness. They don’t know what the on-screen savants mean by a leg-tingle or a perfectly pressed pant leg or a first-class temperament or a president as god — and they don’t care to find out. They do not hate political correctness so much as one-sided political correctness, which gives a pass to some to say things that would get others fired or ruined. They don’t want to be lectured that their own plight is part of a larger, healthy creative destruction or a leaner, meaner competitiveness or an overdue restructuring — by those who are never destroyed, rendered noncompetitive, or restructured. And they don’t like to be talked down to by the experts who ran up $10 trillion in debt, ruined the health-care system, dismantled the military, and screwed up the Secret Service, the IRS, NASA, and the VA. Trump is their megaphone, not their solution. The Trump supporters have seen plenty of politicians with important agendas, but few with the zeal to push them through; at this late date, they would apparently prefer zeal without agendas to agendas without zeal.

To get a clearer idea of the feelings of Trump supporters, read the comments section following any mainstream news story that deals with race, class, and gender in politically correct fashion. A stream-of-consciousness litany of his supporters’ peeves, for good or ill, would run like this: The wrong people are in the news. Instead of generals, and small-business owners, and muscular workers, we instead see smarmy smart-asses, the pajama boys and mattress girls of the world of TV, who roll their eyes, wink about a joke only the anointed get, and smirk that what they say could have three different meanings — the Jon Stewarts, David Lettermans, and Stephen Colberts of Smug, Inc. On race, Trump supporters are tired of hearing that black lives matter, while no one mentions that all lives matter. They are sick of seeing protestors wave the flag of the country they do not wish illegal aliens to be sent back to and trash the country they under no circumstances want them to leave. They don’t like getting a letter from an IRS that employs Lois Lerner — a letter that would be ignored with impunity by those who are here illegally, or who run the Clinton Foundation. They are tired of wealthy minorities claiming they are perpetual victims of ill-treatment at the hands of people who are less well off than they. They don’t like hearing from elites that huge trade deficits have little to do with loss of jobs or that cheating by our trade partners is just a passing glitch in free trade. They cannot stand lectures from those who make more money in an hour than they do in a year about their own bad habits or slothfulness. They don’t know what the on-screen savants mean by a leg-tingle or a perfectly pressed pant leg or a first-class temperament or a president as god — and they don’t care to find out. They do not hate political correctness so much as one-sided political correctness, which gives a pass to some to say things that would get others fired or ruined. They don’t want to be lectured that their own plight is part of a larger, healthy creative destruction or a leaner, meaner competitiveness or an overdue restructuring — by those who are never destroyed, rendered noncompetitive, or restructured. And they don’t like to be talked down to by the experts who ran up $10 trillion in debt, ruined the health-care system, dismantled the military, and screwed up the Secret Service, the IRS, NASA, and the VA. Trump is their megaphone, not their solution. The Trump supporters have seen plenty of politicians with important agendas, but few with the zeal to push them through; at this late date, they would apparently prefer zeal without agendas to agendas without zeal.

Trump has no loyalty to the Republican establishment or to the conservative movement. The apparent greatest attraction for his supporters is that he drives crazy those who worship Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama. And if the Republican establishment implodes with the Obamism it did not stop, well, so goes collateral damage — and in the process, woe to us all.

Virtually everyone, including Ted Cruz and his supporters, downplayed and underestimated Donald Trump’s candidacy from the very beginning, figuring that Trump’s unwillingness to play the political game would come back to haunt him in the end. And if Trump himself didn’t self-destruct, the media would destroy him for them. Instead, Trump beat the media at their own game, and as a result has seemingly inoculated himself from virtually – emphasis on virtually – anything the media and the Clinton machine and their powerful allies in the media can dig up on him between now and November. But it won’t be for a lack of trying, that’s for sure.

And perhaps Trump ultimately will find a way to self-destruct, but I highly doubt it. Trump may say politics is a new game for him, but he’s been playing it for decades, just as a businessman. More than anything else, Trump is a master at the game of winning, and Americans, as no less an authority than General George S. Patton once said, love a winner. And I’m inclined to believe the general.

One can only hope that Madame Hillary and the Democrats will continue to underestimate the power of Trump.

Filed in: Politics & World Events by The Great White Shank at 02:28 | Comments (0)
May 5, 2016

Here in the Valley of the Sun we hit 100 for the first time this year. Then lots of wind and more dust – it’s only May and we’ve already had several dust events. Meaning, sweep the pool again and plan for another backwash this weekend. Back home in Massachusetts, it’s that traditional period in May where you dread bringing your clubs hoping to get in some spring golf only to encounter persistent clouds and rain for an entire week. Sometimes early in the month, sometimes later, but May can be one cruel month.

I think this is what Robert Frost had in mind when he wrote the following:

“The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.”

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 22:07 | Comments (0)

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