September 20, 2019

…and just like that our last day of 100-degree temperatures is gone. The highs the next week? 97-95-97-85-88-91-91-93. More importantly, at least as far as the pool is concerned, the lows 68-69-73-71-69-69-69-70, meaning the pool temperature, which just a couple of weeks ago was still hanging around 90, will crash into non–swimmingness. Last year we made it to the 29th of September as the last triple-digit day. Tonight, we’ve got our French doors wide open on the patio, and the air conditioning feels no need to click itself on. It’s not Arizona winter yet – that will come in a few weeks when the 90s melt away into the 80s and 70s – but not too many people are going to mourn the end of triple-digits and tonight feels mighty fine.

I have some Cruzan Hurricane rum – 137-proof “Strong enough to weather any storm” the saying goes, and I’ll enjoy a finger of it with an ice cube under happy pineapple lights on the back patio. Carmelo told me to stop watering the grass today so he can buzz the front, side, and back yards like a number-one buzz in two weeks and seed the winter rye. I listened to him today with glazed-over eyes: work has been an absolute bear this week, a string of 12-hour days starting at 6 AM and ending somewhere near 7 PM and I’m mentally and physically exhausted. Another year, another summer gone here in the Valley of the Sun, and I can’t help but think the whole year has been an absolute waste, creatively, emotionally, and physically, with really nothing to show for it except me just getting older.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 00:25 | Comments (0)
September 19, 2019

It’s mid-September and time is running out on our monsoon season which has been a total bust here in the Valley of the Sun. We’ve only two weeks left, and we’ve gotten our hopes up so many times about meaningful storms and rain only to have them dashed time and again. So excuse me if I don’t get my hopes too high for a possible major rain event come early next week. The good thing is, today looks like the last day of triple-digit highs, which would be a little bit earlier than usual!

…wish I felt like playing golf, but to be brutally honest, I think I’m gonna put my game on hold indefinitely. Right now, it’s just much work for what you get out of it, and the desire is just not there. We’ll see…

I’m eagerly waiting for‘s winter forecast to see if the early snow they’ve gotten in the Sierra Nevadas is a harbinger of things good and wet to come.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to be lectured by some smart alecky, snot-nosed teenager about climate change. What I feel bad about is not what’s happening to the planet – the planet will be just fine – is a veritable child being used as a tool by politicians and activists who care nothing about the planet; they’re just using that – and her – as an excuse to implement their goal for planet-wide socialism and massive wealth redistribution. If you don’t believe me, just check out their impeccable record of successful predictions.

Here’s another couple of damned fine Bee Gees tunes: this lovely ballad from “Main Course”, and this gorgeous up-tempo track from “One”.

Why does it always seem that Democrats’ desire for so-called “fairness” always ends up screwing the little people in the end?

No surprise that the high and mighty of Boston’s sports reporters are all over the New England Patriots for keeping Antonio Brown on the roster in the face of rape allegations. Of course, Eric Willbur has always been a self-righteous twit, but, silly, me, I always thought in this country you were innocent until proven guilty. But that’s not the way the liberal, self-righteous sports media (and Boston’s are amongst the worst) look at things.

…of course, the same holds true for the non-sports media. That whole New York Times hit piece on Brett Kavanuagh was just a disgrace. If I’m Kavanaugh I’m gonna try and bleed them dry with a defamation lawsuit that would make their heads spin. Doubt he would win, but I guarantee it would take a little starch out of the wallets of these elitist bastards who think the rights of a free press gives them the right to assassinate the character of people they disagree with politically.

You know why I think they’re coming after Kavanaugh like this? At this point in time? Because they know Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg isn’t going to be around much longer and they’re steeling their forces for the mother of all Supreme Court confirmation hearings. They know whomever Trump nominates is going to be confirmed (after all, the GOP holds the Senate, so they’re trying to intimidate Judge Kavanaugh into a more centrist point of view judicially. Make no mistake about it: these people are a bunch of vile pigs.

This is the biggest story you’ll never hear about on CNN or MSNBC. The guy is one bad dude, a LGBTQ activist/ pervert / sexual predator in whose house two black men were found dead; someone who, BTW, is a significant player in California political liberal circles, someone who is anything but a stranger to the likes of Hillary Clinton and Democrat congressmen Adam “Shifty” Schiff and Ted “Loser” Lieu.

Run, Fauxcahontus, run! Win, Fauxcahontus win! As a commenter on this tweet said, “She’s going to remind every divorced man of their ex wife”. Personally – and I’m 100 honest on this – were I a Democrat Warren would be my first choice for the Party’s nomination. Not because she’s not a fraud (she is), but her political positions espouse everything a Democrat / liberal / progressive would want to see representing their views most authentically. Think about it: “Slo’ Joe” Biden is a fool, a veritable ignoramus with a greasy, used-car salesman grin, Bernie Sanders’ is beyond fool, “Beto” O’Roarke is a clown, Kamala Harris’ candidacy is toast – the more people saw her, the more she revealed herself to be nothing more than ambitious, opportunistic bitch, and the rest of the Democratic clown-car candidates have no business being on a presidential debate podium. Worthy, perhaps, of a VP choice for the purposes of identity politics, but nothing more than that.

Hey, let’s play the “tolerance, acceptance, and diversity game”. Which supposed “outcasts” in their respective communities are going to receive the most tolerance and acceptance? Two gay dudes who are unequivocal Trump supporters, by Republicans and conservatives, or two black women unequivocal in their support for the President, by Democrats and liberals? I think you know the answer.

…and if you’re a duly-elected Democratic senator who happens to be both hot (well, at least for a U.S. Senator) and her own person, heaven help you. I’ll say it again: liberals and progressives are most angry, intolerant and nasty people that God ever put on this earth. They deserve to be crushed into itty-bitty morsels of

Just one more reason to applaud President Trump’s decision to cut ties with his National Security Advisor John Bolton. Personally, I respect the guy’s knowledge but am dismayed to see him reveal himself for such a petty turncoat. Between Bolton and Lindsey Graham, they reflect a Beltway world-view that never met it a war it didn’t like and never thought twice about spilling American blood for the purposes of their own self-interests and nation-building agendas.

Reading Red Sox manager Alex Cora’s comments after his team’s loss to the Giants, it occurs to me that most of what he’s talking about is the fact that this year’s edition of the Sox didn’t get the most of their overall talent. Earth to Cora: that’s your job, dude! My recommendation is that you spend this winter thinking long and hard about what a manager’s role is, because you’re on track to be the first one fired in 2020 if your team doesn’t break out of the gate fast.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 01:30 | Comments (0)
September 14, 2019

Man walks into a bar. Says to the bartender, “I want something tall, cold, and full of gin. Bartender looks back at him and says, “Leave my wife out of this!”

I’ll tell you: the books of John D. MacDonald never disappoint. Sure, they’re dark and cynical in their portrayal of life as lived by the suburban class in the late fifties / early sixties: the quiet desperation exemplified in Peggy Lee’s “Is That All There Is?”, the sense of life moving too fast with the inevitable questions of whys and hows, afraid of what the answers might be. In MacDonald’s novels, his characters work too hard and drink too much behind a façade of nice homes, well-manicured lawns, and the struggle for identity and meaning in a post-war world where life is cheap and the struggle for finding some kind of existential meaning in life is both omnipresent and foreboding. I’m currently reading “Cancel All Our Vows” (the joke above is from that novel). It really is great stuff.

Holy crap, it looks more and more like there’s no way “Slo’ Joe” Biden is gonna make it into the primaries. Sure, it’s bad enough when Biden makes gaffes like Forty killed at Kent State – even the most clueless moron would have known it was only four, courtesy of Crosby Stills, Nash, and Young (heck, it’s in the friggin’ lyrics!). Keene, New Hampshire in Vermont? Admitting his public health care proposal would not be quality? And then at last night’s Democratic debate, bumbling and blustering his way through incoherent answers and disconnected thoughts including, of all things, record players. “Record players”? Hey Joe, how ’bout some Tang or Tab to wash those records down with?

…no wonder even that bastion of liberalism – Rolling Stone – says enough is enough. Liberals might detest Donald Trump, but there has to be an increasing sense that if it’s Biden, Trump will carve him up like a Sunday roast. Better, then, to pick a candidate who libs and progressives can rally around who’s not some senile, doddering swamp creature completely incapable of speaking intelligently on his feet.

Speaking of Delaware senators, while I admit to not having much in common with Biden’s permanent successor Chris Coons, he’s spot-on in saying that “Beto” O’Rourke’s bold statement about confiscating AK-47s and AR-15s at Thursday night’s Democratic debate is going to come back to haunt the Party – not just in 2020 but for years to come. Sure, Beto’s obvious pandering to anti-gun advocates might work in liberal bastions like California, Seattle, and Portland, Oregon, but national elections are won in swing states chock full of – you guessed it – law-abiding gun owners. If you didn’t catch the debate and hear O’Roarke’s actual words, don’t worry: they’ll replayed a thousand times over the next year in places like New Hampshire, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, and Minnesota long after Beto’s shelf life has expired.

…and after last night Beto can kiss any thoughts he might have had about challenging Texas senator John Cornyn adios. What a moron.

Still on a Bee Gees kick. So which version of “Come On Over” do you like better: the Bee Gees’, or Olivia Newton-John’s? Considering that ONJ’s rendition is one of my top-ten favorites of hers, I gotta go with that. But the gospel/country-flavored version by the Brothers Gibb isn’t bad at all, albeit a little plodding for my taste. After all, you can’t keep a good song down.

Just another example of why I happen to think transgenders are unstable individuals and wackos. Look – again — I could care less what you do in your own life or bedroom, but if your own perversions and sexual deviancies prevent you from acting in a civil manner to people, you need your friggin’ head examined. You folks are sick, and the sooner you admit you have a problem the better off we’ll all be.

So a new PGA TOUR season is upon us. Tried to watch a little of the inaugural Greenbrier event on Friday night but I have to admit I’m still feeling pretty burned out when it comes to golf. Just too mentally and physically drained. I do have to wash all that Massachusetts dirt left over from Goodboys weekend off my clubs and plan on doing that this weekend, but as far as playing goes I may take me a longer sabbatical than originally planned. Frankly, the idea of even hitting balls makes me want to barf.

I know it’s early, but you want to know my sleeper state to turn “red” in 2020? Connecticut. Laugh all you want, but remember you heard it here first.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 00:30 | Comments (0)
September 11, 2019

Never forget. May God continue to comfort and fill with strength those who died eighteen years ago on that awful day. Hard to fathom that the infants on those flights and in those buildings – and there were a number of them – would have completed or been near completing high school by now. Such a waste of human potential by a bunch of monsters.

Never forget. I truly believe it was an act of divine intervention that Hillary Clinton never became President of the United States. Donald Trump might be brash and obnoxious, but he doesn’t have the blood on his hands that that reprehensible, vile, corrupt, and evil bitch does.

What liberalism is all about. Coming soon to your Democratic-led state, city, and town. Because, y’know, it’s all about the planet.

I already mentioned in prior posts two great Bee Gees song, “Nights on Broadway” and “I Gotta Get A Message To You”. Here are a couple more, one from their pre-disco era, one from afterwards. I have fond memories of “How Can You Mend…” — my Mom singing the harmonies when the song came on the radio while we were driving on our last family vacation to Niagara Falls.

As usual, Kurt Schlichter hits the nail on the head, this time about climate change:

Observing that “climate change” is steaming garbage served in a dirty ashtray is not disputing that the climate changes. That the climate is not static, and never could be static, is one of the myriad reasons that this whole idea is ridiculous. The planet gets hotter, it gets colder, sometimes quickly, sometimes over eons, and there are a bunch of reasons why, like the sun and volcanos. Human-produced carbon might be one of the factors, but there’s simply no evidence that it is a significant one. Of course, if they really cared about carbon, they would be up in arms about China and India, which are upping their output while we are slashing ours. Yet the object of their ire is your New York strip. Gosh, does that seem consistent with 1) someone truly concerned about atmospheric carbon, or 2) someone who trembles with joy at the notion of bossing around you rubes out in gun/Jesusland?

The underlying premise of their claims seems to be that there is a “right” temperature for the earth; watch them sputter when you enquire about that perfect setting for Earth’s thermostat. Remember, if you ask questions you hate “science.” If they did stop telling you how you hate “science” long enough to respond, they might explain that of course there’s no perfect temperature – it’s not like LA, where it’s always 72 degrees.

Here’s my question: so climate change activists like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez tell us that we’ve only got a dozen years or so to “fix the planet”. If that’s the case, then why are they worrying so much about needing to pack the Supreme Court or take our guns? If for all intents and purposes we as a species are on the equivalent of life support, why would liberals care about what might happen after Trump’s second term when our existence is down to single digits in years? The truth is, George Carlin was absolutely right about us being nothing more than an invasive species that the earth will take care of in its own good time. Glad I won’t be around to see it.

I’ll say this about Ringo Starr: he’s no Paul McCartney. And I mean that as a compliment.

But of course they did. After all, when it comes to liberals and their communist/socialist fixations, what’s twenty or thirty million lives between friends?

Emerald Robinson speaks truth to power – this case the powerful LGBTQ activists who pummel the mainstream media with their agenda-driven sob stories on a daily basis. Spare me. These transgender / queer activists are soulless and sick in the head, prisoners of their own sick and perverted image of themselves and sexuality in general, and not worthy of all the fawning coverage they get. Personally, I don’t care what you are or what you do in terms of sexual preference – it’s none of my business – but keep it to yourself and out of my face, and most especially, the faces of our nation’s children.

A Great White Shank political rule of thumb: whatever Mitt Romney is for, I’m against. And vice-versa. The guy has the political chops of an idiot. I might despise progressive politics, but I hate the politics of neocons even like Romney even more. All these people do is get us into needless wars and global intrigues we have no business messing with.

Excellent news. One more down, millions left to go. Sorry, I have little sympathy towards illegals, and I don’t care how old or young they are. You want to emigrate to this country? C’mon in, but do it the right way. Take your place in line and make it a worthwhile venture in your life. Starting your American experience as a criminal shows how little regard for this country and its laws you have. You get what you deserve.

Agreed. You know damned well that if the Dems had won NC-09 it would be all over the mainstream media that Trump’s in trouble, the Republicans are in trouble, and on and on and on. Obviously, Trump’s visit helped and shows he’s got some great coattails, and on social media tonight the Dems are whining, complaining, and calling all Trump voters stupid or racists (say, where have I heard that before???). Their anguish brings me joy.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 02:09 | Comments (0)
September 9, 2019

This year’s monsoon season has been quite the bust here in the Valley of the Sun, and no one seems to know what to make of it. Normally you’ll get your share of dust storms and hopefully some rain from thunderstorms – where I live has always seemed to have a protective dome over it, causing the storms to move south and north of us – but this year there has been a dearth of both. Just lots of very hot weather. Not sure if this is related to the fading El Nino or not, but I’ll tell you, I’m ready for some fall weather, even if that means it drops to the 90s. This 108+ sh*t is getting kinda old.

The firing of Red Sox GM Dave Dombrowski means one thing and one thing only: the manager on the hottest seat starting next year is going to be Alex Cora. Sure, he and Dombrowski pulled all the right strings last year, but both of them have been lackluster in their handling of the 2019 season. Dombrowski made some bad signings and made the obvious mistake of thinking the club could get by without a bona fide closer, for sure, but Cora’s team has been listless at times, horrendous in fundamentals (most especially when it comes to baserunning) and he looks out of his league out there. The Sox better come out of the gates hot in 2020 or Cora will be among the season’s first casualties.

…along those same lines, I have to believe Mookie Betts is going to be traded in the offseason. For one thing, his offense has been replaced by the emergence of third baseman Rafael Devers; more importantly, the Sox need to replenish their minor leagues as a result o Dombrowski’s moves over the past couple of years. The trick will be to find a team whose minor league talent matches their willingness to pay someone like Betts, who doesn’t seem to have any desire to be tied down to any particular organization.

I have to tell you, I’ve really gotten into the music of the Bee Gees lately. Not sure how it started, actually – I’ve always liked their music but never really felt the need to take a deep dive into their catalog. But one night I was trolling YouTube and came across “I’ve Gotta Get A Message To you” and “Nights On Broadway” – two great songs by any measure – and watched a documentary on them that I found positively fascinating. Then I listened to several tracks from two of their pre-disco era, Odessa and Trafalgar, and a couple from their post-disco years, especially One, and I was hooked. Most folks will recognize Barry Gibb’s vocals, but I find Robin Gibb’s voice particular fascinating in its kind of theatrical vulnerability.

Great post over at Ace of Spades on the folk music split that occurred in 1965 when Dylan went electric at the Newport Folk Festival. The whole thing is still kind of akin to something apocryphal in nature, but the fact was, Bob didn’t feel like being pigeon-holed into the “folk” thing espoused by the likes of Joan Baez and Pete Seeger; he wanted to be his own artist and explore where he could go, and, being true leftists, they never really forgave him for it. As OregonMuse writes in his post:

I don’t think the definitive book has been written on the early folkies all being a bunch of rat bastard commies. The closest is probably Commies: “A Journey Through the Old Left, the New Left and the Leftover Left” by Ron Radosh, now OOP.

I never really took Seeger, Baez, Buffy St. Marie, and all those folkies seriously. I thought they were a bunch of frauds and still do. Because they’re leftists, and whether they’re musicians, or politicians, or climate-change activists, they’re all just a bunch of hypocrites. Others in that genre at the time, like Gordon Lightfoot and Joni Mitchell, their politics aside, always seemed to me to have a little more gravitas and creativity.

Hard to know what to make of what’s going on in Hong Kong recently, but I have to believe President Trump is a looming large presence in the background. Anyone who thinks China is holding the upper hand here doesn’t understand the sea change being brought by a president who is willing to roll the dice to reverse decades of Chinese chicanery in monetary policy and trade. They really don’t know what to make of Trump because he’s unlike anyone in American politics they’ve ever dealt with. Unlike the presidents of the past going back to Bill Clinton, Trump isn’t willing to take bribes or favors on behalf of China’s global interests. You know they’d love to see a Democrat win in 2020, but even they have to see that the current slate of Democratic challengers is not going to get that job done. So they’re in a funk.

Rot in hell, Robert Mugabe. If there was ever an argument to be made for a return to colonialism, the kind of teapot despot Mugabe was its poster-child. He was a corrupt, immoral thug – the kind the Brits back in the day would have led out to the main entrance into town and strung up for all to see. It’s an unfortunate thing that this kind of thing is happening all over Africa, a continent that, outside of precious few instances, seems utterly incapable of managing itself in any kind of moral and competent way without foreign intervention and humanitarian aid. You look at what’s going on in places like South Africa and Zimbabwe and it’s just disgraceful that the United Nations does nothing about it.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 02:37 | Comments (0)
September 7, 2019

Pardon the pause in blogging, but the few weeks have been especially long and stressful at work and I just haven’t felt like hitting the home computer to blog after long days at the computer in the office next door. Whether it’s because of work and days beginning with crisis calls at 6 or 7 AM (never a good way to start anyone’s day!), or the fact that we’ve had some really expensive car issues to the tune of nearly $4K when we’re supposed to be saving for retirement, I’ve just been struggling with thinking too much about too many things and getting caught up in worrying too much about what ought to be happening at this point in my life instead of dealing rationally with what is happening.

It’s been hard not to, I suppose, with all the rumors of big organizational changes coming at work and whether I’ll even have a job by the end of the year, but at some point you have to take stock in what you have and what is precious to you and figure out what to do with the staggering amount of bullshit you’ve allowed yourself to be consumed with inwardly. Two weeks ago I had to be talked out of resigning my position at work by my boss’s boss after an incident where I was publicly slammed by one of our VPs for something I wasn’t even involved in (a case of mistaken identity) without any kind of apology afterwards. And then there was the whole Goodboys thing I blogged about last month: the same day I offered up my resignation at work I decided that I was done with Goodboys as well. I had my resignation letter to the Nation all ready to go and was ready to hit the “Send” button when something told me this kind of momentous decision ought to be slept on before acting on it.

So the next day comes and I’ve got other bigwigs apologizing to me for the dickhead VP and them saying how good a job I’m doing and all that bullshit, so I decided to put my resignation and my Goodboys resignation on hold as well. And then the after-thought. What was I trying to do? What kind of statement was I trying to make? And so there was this whole inner crisis thing going on – something, I guess, that has been going on to one degree or another since my Mom’s passing more than three years ago. I’d been adrift in a way since then, that sense only exacerbated in the past year with being put on blood pressure medication, then having the cough and the damned lung nodules, then the severe anemia and the iron infusions and the office visits at the cancer hospital which only further remind you of your own mortality and how fragile life is and how old you’re getting.

I’ve been working my way through the works of John D. MacDonald, known for his books about ordinary people living lives of quiet desperation in an uncaring, hostile world of real state hucksters, corruption, environmental destruction, and societal/cultural changes, primarily in Florida but elsewhere as well. I’d been reading his Contrary Pleasure, about a family in upstate New York who owned and operated a textile mill whose existence was being threatened by a hostile takeover. Following the suicide of his brother, the head of the family decides not to sell, realizing that the mill is his life and that, win or lose, he would either see the company’s success or demise on his own terms instead of allowing others to make his future for him. For as long as he could remember, he too had been asking the same big questions; in the end it all came down to the same basic fundamentals:

You work because you work. You do your job because you do your job. Without sword or mission or grail. And the clan rides your shoulders. Full of a ridiculous, trusting confidence in you. Knowing that their world cannot change.

And in reading that passage, a light suddenly went on and the clouds that were in my head gradually gave way to an acceptance about who I am and where I am.

The fact is, I am growing older – older than I ever imagined myself ever being. My youngest brother Mark is gone, long gone, by suicide. My mother is gone, and so too her sister and my favorite aunt, Auntie Marge. The remains of what I once knew as “family” is scattered across the country. Sure, there are the occasional calls with my brother Dave and regular calls and semi-regular visits with my Dad, but otherwise the once-strong and intimate family connections are now held together only through the occasional call and text. I still have close, long-time friends of forty years like Paul and Ben, and, for more than three decades, Killer and Dog. All of whom are more like brothers to me than anything else. And there are my Goodboys friends like Goose, Cubby, and Skeeta who help maintain my Goodboys (and Massachusetts) connections. Most importantly, I’m loved by a wonderful wife and a sister-in-law who bring both color and meaning to my life.

But, sitting in the sanctuary of my back patio under happy pineapple lights next to the Tiki bar and listening to palm tree branches rustling in the breeze under a half-moon, I realize this is what it is and the way it is. And I’m the person I am with all the joys, sadness, and regrets of a life that has brought me to where I sit for better or for worse. And I realize I’m damned blessed to have the things and friends and family around me that I do. I work because I work. I do my job because I do my job. I’m a Goodboy because I helped create this damned thing called Goodboys and a Goodboy I will always be, until my end or its end, whichever comes first. And I do so without sword or mission or grail. And the clan (in their various forms) rides my shoulders. Full of a ridiculous, trusting confidence in me.

I know now that you can’t live your life in fear of what might come and whether or how you’ll handle it when it does come. That’s not living, that’s being imprisoned inside yourself and condemned to a life of waiting and apprehension. Wake up in the morning and wonder if this will be your last day on earth. Wonder where that sharp pain in your side or back or chest came from, and if that’s the first sign of something truly bad. I know now that I can’t live like that. That doesn’t mean that I can’t have strong opinions about things or choose to avoid dick-heads who exist in my circle of work and play, but I also have to realize that you can’t wipe clean relationships and friendships simply because there may be a dick-head lurking amongst you.

Most importantly, I think I’ve come to a realization that whatever happens is going to happen and if I go it alone it will only be because it is my choosing to do so. Life is far better lived amongst family and friends.

So I’m back blogging again and hopefully will be back to posting things of far lesser consequence, like golf, politics, and which is the better Bee Gees song, “Nights on Broadway”, or “I’ve Gotta Get A Message To You”.

..and thanks, Beach Boys, for the title of this post. That’s a damned fine song as well.

Filed in: Uncategorized by The Great White Shank at 23:22 | Comments (2)


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