shallowpondblog

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#nevermindillbuythreepairsofshoes #iwishnothingbutsomejimmychus #nordholidaybag #rollingstone

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#2qualitypeople #annlooksgoodfor60right

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An even bigger size. Count me in!#godblessamerica #dotsverygood

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#withoutacause (at McDonald's at 1530 3Rd Ave)

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Clown wall. #dontjudgemeuntilyouvewalkedamileinmybigclownshoes

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Always look on the bright side of life. #whistlethetunenow #cantspellwhistlingsounds

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Maybe TMI, but the stuffing mixing bowl has also doubled as a wide-mouthed juvenile vomit receptacle over the years. #dontworryitstotallycleanish

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After enduring a week like no other, here are a few suggestions for coping with the calamity that’s about to unfold over the next four years. There is life after Trump.

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National Novel Writing Month with my awesome writing group. Will a novel emerge this month from the rubble? Yeahhhnnnnomaybe. #writingisfunwhenyouststartdoingit

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How can we all come together rather than drifting further apart on the eve of this election? I’m here to help.

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The football uniform has evolved significantly over the past 150 years. Here’s a look at the lighter side of pigskin fashion.

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The Con Man and the Carpet Bomber

Let’s start with a quick quiz. True or false, Republican presidential frontrunner Donald Trump, at some point or another, has said each of the following: “I don’t feel guilty for anything. I feel sorry for people who feel guilt.”

“Success is the sole earthly judge of right and wrong.” "Torture works, okay folks? Believe me, it works.”

The answer is “false.” Ted Bundy uttered the first statement just prior to kicking back in Old Sparky, and the second quote comes from none other than Adolph Hitler. Oh, and yeah, that last line actually is from Trump, since Hitler probably would have said "volks” and the word “earthly” is a little too fancy for the Apricot Assmask.

My point is, when stacked up against two all-time psychopaths, Donald Trump cozies up like a puppy in a sack of sausage. Like the other two, he thrives on deception and preys on fear, he dangles his vitriolic red meat above the ravenous mouths of the disillusioned and disenfranchised, and over the past six months, he’s provided his supporters no shortage of targets on which to focus their hatred.

The irony in all this is Donald Trump, the man. While railing against corporate special interests and political corruption, he’s morphed into the human personification of the very entity he eschews. Like a classic American corporation, he isn’t immoral, he’s amoral—his sole aim is maximum returns for the good of the brand, and he’s demonstrated a willingness to do or say anything toward that end. In his mind, just as Hitler spouted, success is the ultimate judge of right and wrong.

But you already knew that. The question now is, what do we do? I’m not really sure, but after this week’s Super Tuesday III, Ted Cruz seems to think he’s got the nomination aced. After Marco Rubio’s withdrawal Tuesday night, young Ted took the podium with squinty delusions of grandeur despite having won nary a state. Here’s a little snippet:

"Together we will make Washington less relevant in all of our lives. We will repeal every word of Obamacare. We will pass a simple flat tax and abolish the IRS. We will rein in the EPA and the government regulators that are killing small businesses.

"And we'll stop amnesty, secure the borders, and end welfare benefits for those here illegally. And the result will be millions upon millions of high-paying jobs and wages rising for people across America. (It) will be young people coming out of school with two, three, four, five job opportunities.”

Holy shit, Ted, what’s the plan for your second week in office?

I’m about seventy percent sure that next January, Bill Clinton will saunter through the White House door, high five Hillary and sprint to his room to see if his stash of Penthouses is still under the bed. But God bless the United States of America when that happens, because if you think our nation is divided now, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Fox News, indebted to the original Clinton presidency for its anointing as messenger to the ignorant and fearful, will blossom. “Fox4U," its new alternative offshoot, will have the news read by attractive twenty-somethings who will rail against the Clintons while wearing bikinis and sausage satchels. Ratings will skyrocket.

Until then, the Repubs are left to choose between Trump, Cruz or an as-yet-unnamed GOP savior. If this happens, chances are extremely likely that this individual will be considerably more normal-looking than either of the other candidates. Look, I know I’m no beauty queen, but Cruz is one creepy looking Texan. He's got the the face of a comic book villain whose face stuck in a contorted smirk after a nuclear mishap.

To my conservative chums, a friendly word of advice: get your shit together. Right now, you must select either a megalomaniac who believes in exacting revenge on terrorists’ families, or a ghoulish theocrat who will "utterly destroy ISIS. We will carpet bomb them into oblivion. I don't know if sand can glow in the dark, but we're going to find out.”

Out of the 142 million Americans eligible to run for president, you've narrowed it down to these two? Scary.

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The Yin’s Fine, But That Needle’s a Little Close to My Yang.

How open are you to trying to new things? Ever bought a pair of red Chuck Taylors, then actually worn them? Ever had your ear pierced in Canada then didn't get rid of it when you got back to the States? Hey, me neither! On a scale of one to ten, how game are you, with a one being, "Hey, Honey, can you hand me a new bottle of Pert over the curtain? You know I can't wash my bottom with a dirty head," to a ten being "Hell yes I'll eat that monkey!"? While most of us fall somewhere mid-range, I've always skewed toward the "there's only one way to get to Tukwila" end of the scale. Sure, I've always talked a big game, but inevitably I've skedaddled to the comfort of my black and white cocoon of absolutism. But when it comes to my asthma, experimentation has always bucked my conservatism. Since my first attack in '65, I've experimented with any number of inhaler cocktails, yet stuck to my tried and true friend, Albuterol, much like Donald Trump's well-documented dependence on Cialis and finger extensions. I'm a freaking OG vaper, which is why my adult life has witnessed a winding chain of steroid-based treatments, but without the benefit of large deltoids and small testes. Prior to this winter, my only foray into eastern sensibilities had been a brief smidge of ponytailed dabbling back in the '90s, devouring Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in an impressive year-and-a-half. In summary, its message was that when we're able to shake free our dualistic mindsets (good/bad, right/wrong, subject/object), and simply experience every moment as it occurs, our egos dissolve and we become one with everything. No separation will then exist between the energy that powers all living things, a force within which God resides. So yeah, while the whole Zen deal is amazing and enlightening and all that shit, not once in all those pages does anyone mention God shoving needles in my cheeks. And I'm not talking about the more insulated cheeks located south of the Bible Belt; if my eyes are midtown Manhattan, the needles are setting up shop in Little Italy. Regardless, by December of last year, things had gotten to the point where, whether at work, home, the bus or the Target check-out line, I'd become a wheezing, coughing, throat-clearing phlegmbot, tirelessly annoying folks of all shapes and sizes, It was time to act or be assaulted by loved ones and strangers with equal impunity. In January, I began weekly acupuncture treatments, and since, I've managed to vaguely grasp the theoretical reason why the Army Corps of Engineers felt it necessary to construct a weekly needle runway from collar bone down to lower abdomen, stopping just short of the more sensitive Silk Road to the Temple. The gist of the theory is that when our bodies are balanced, energy flows freely from within and without. This energy is known as qi (pronounced "chee"), or life force. Qi consists of opposing forces, the yin (moist and cooling, emanating from the earth) and the yang (warm and invigorating, flowing downward from the sun and sky). With my flow of qi impeded, an overabundance of "wind" or yin, becomes trapped in the lung, causing wheezing and shortness of breath. To combat this, needles are inserted along the lung meridian, one of nine energy pathways present in our bodies, to re-kindle the egalitarian relationship between yin and yang. In other words, the lung meridian is prodded with enough little lawn darts to force the twins back to the negotiating table. Finally, following these months of treatments, yin and yang appear to have stopped fighting in the back seat over the last Red Vine, and Father Qi hasn't had to pull over and spank, as he calls them, "those goddamn twins." Is all of this working? Has my asthma gone the way of the IBM Selectric? Not yet, but it's improved substantially. Unfortunately, I'm unable to fully attribute this change to acupuncture alone, since during this same period, I've eliminated dairy, lost some weight and implemented a regimen of 18 herbal supplements per day. But hey, what matters is results, right? Actually, l changed my mind. The acupuncture is fully responsible. Let's order a pizza.

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How was your year overall? Good? Bad? How about just “meh”? A look back at the best and worst of 2015, along with some startling conclusions (or, maybe not).