Instagram Crackers

Hate Facebook but own an assload of stock in it.     I’m not stupid.

And a blog is fine, Twitter is okay but I like Instagram.     It lets me be more obnoxious. So, while this blog will continue and Twitter is still on occasional go to technical status, so Instagram Is my world and welcome to it.      I go by Laurlandia.     Everything else even remotely close to myname was already taken..

Anyway, it’ll be a melange of hoot, photos, politics, deviant possibilities, truth, lies,  regrets, hopes, dreams, rants, posturing, bitterness, glimpses of joy, style, fashion, home decor, toenails, art, my furry children, existentialism, zeitgeist, harrowing stories of even more failed  relationships, dysfunctional family life, growing older, finding weird Middle Age hair in even wierder places, neglecting terrestrial radio, famed Jewish  athletes and aspects of my existence that are both smile and cringeworthy.

You know, light reading.

Enjoy!

Tap on Laurlandia below be transported to a place of wonder with no other selfies.

Promise.

The Icing Man Commeth

As in a man icing a birthday cake.

Yes, the old Laur will have traipsed Ms. Buck’s ‘Good Earth’ for 57 years.   Hard to believe.   It’s been an interesting  57 jam  packed years filled with amazing life experiences so incredibly groovy and so horrible, they could reanimate  Buddy Ebsen.

And some years could’ve inspired Dante.

Good and bad were and are always present,  just at different times for different  purple.

I keep getting asked what I want this year.      My answer is nothing.    Im  reminded  that everyday I spend  above ground is a treat and I am grateful.     And I want other things like global  love, world peace , equality,  no more profiteering from war and all the other typical Miss America Q&A response shit.    But my passion for al these things are waning.   Im hardly as passionate about any of it as I used to be.   I mean, I’m not willing to burn the flag, my haggard bra  or my AARP card in protest.     I protest with my wallet now.   For example, If I don’t like how little Dole pays its pickers, I don’t buy their pineapples.

And I used to think college protestors who burned the ROTC building or overtook the dean’s office were cool.  Today, I think they’re criminals.    To have youthful idealism is womderful, but keep it within a reality  based perspective.   Everything must change.    Like elongated boobs that were once taught and perky but  now hold a tray of canapes. They’ve changed.    Everything changes.    Life is about change and how we changed with the changes forced upon us.is

My whole family consists of pre-Clinton Democrats.      They aren’t now.     I used to be a blond.   The every increasing streaks of grey  amid the dark roots prove I’m not that not that much of a liar..     My tolerance has changed.     And I’m now far more confrontational.     If I see an ininjustice, I’ll say something.   If one is perpetuated against me, God help the perpetrator.  If warranted, I’ll use what few good bones I have left left in my leg aim directly at the crotch.    Any crotch..      A grocery cart rolled into my car recently.   You know that  plastic sign in the side insisting that all children be” carefully strapped” in  seats??

The cart now has a huge ding between the reo ‘Ps’.

As for turning 57, my brain is now taking orders from my body more than my brain,     I had a nasty car accident 27 years ago and broke 11 bones, so my brain gets overridden quite a bit.    Moving really isn’t all that easy and the accompanying chronic pain is no picnic  but if strong enough, you learn to live with your newfound abilities..

So….I guess what I’ll do my BD do is wake up that morning, take a post wake up nap, scratch whatever  itches—-bathing will  be based on a coin flip, check FOX News to see who blew what up, then go my almost 86 year old  mother’s house and stare at her third and final caesarean  section scar for 57 seconds as she reminds me how painful my birth was.    Her memory wanes.   I keep telling her she did not have me vaginally.  She insists she did and seems to recall the spinal block  injection that numbed everything below her waist was just a mosquito bite.

I’ll just sit there and agree with her, then make an apology for my painful birth she never felt,  but that’ll fall  on deaf ears.     As in literal deaf ears.

Then I hope I go back to my house sans people trying to hide behind furniture to surprise me, then I’ll light a votive candle and make the same 51 year old birthday wish  I always make.   It won’t come true, but after 57 years  it’s become a habit.   I can always hope.

Look, I know this makes me out  you be a cynic,  pessimistic and  jaded.   Don’t get me wrong.   Life is okay.    I go out early on clear Central Texas morning and see stars that I just know are looking back at me and only me.     I’l be thankful that while my boobs a do look WWII issue German hand grenades, they’re both healthy.   Ill smile because I’m NOT a mother of five in Mexico who struggles to feed her children.    Then I’ll smile even bigger becsuse I can  write a check to a charity that can help her her get all the food  she needs.

So  yeah, , I’ll 57 in a less than week.    Sure I’ve hardened;  gotten older, colder and in the process of being happy to be bored, perfectly ok with being alone, even being more intolerant of certain things, I’ll,be okay,   All those things, as unpleasant as they might be, means I’m alive.

But you know what?   On second thought, I do want something, but good damn luck trying to wrap it in a box, because all I want is some time back.     I want the time….just enough time to express my gratitude for all the things and people in my life.

And for all the things and people I’ve lost and will soon be losing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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grateful

The Fascinating CBK

Many incredible world events happened during my 30-year career as a newscanchor/reporter.   The Berln Wall came down and capitalism came tumbling in.    O. J. Simpson’s murder trial,  the lengthy Korsech stand off in Waco, Hurricane Katrina, Tienneman Square, The Gulf war  of course, September 11th and all the world changing procedures and processes that became commonplace afterwards..

I might have covered them by proxy, from safety of a studio a thousand miles away, but when you report on a story long enough, you come to know the characters.    Even the terrain where the stories happen.

I felt that way about John Kennedy, JR’s.plane crash.    From an age perspective, I fall between John and his sister , Caroline.     I grew up with them, basically.    I have vague memories of the frolicking in the Oval Office.    But their mother’s desperate need for privacy kept them out of the limelight for most of their our childhood.  I saw even less of them after Jackie married Onassis.   Years went by and I don’t remember hearing or seeing a thing about either sibling, then all of a sudden, John John as he was called as a child,had grown up into a very handsome man.   And his photos were everywhere.

In 1994, I was assigned to cover the Houston Rockets NBA finals match up with the New Year Knicks, not covering the game per se, but doing whacky slice of life, fish out of water stories in the big .  But I went to Madison Square Garden for one of the playoff games and with my media access badge, I could go almost anywhere.  So, I was standing near the corner of the court and sitting mere feet from me in his courtside  side, is John By God Kennedy..   He had on a awhiye button down shirt, sleeves rolled up and he was drinking a beer from a plastic cup.    Like an Everyman, but trust me, he wasn’t.   He was probably one of the best looking men I’d ever seen.   Like a Shiele portrait.      Security told me to step back which I did, and that ended my 13 second relationship with John John.Fast forward five years.

I was sad to learn John’s  plane had crashed and it was apparent to everybody even though it was never mentioned on the air, that all three passengers were dead.   John, Carolyn and her sister, Lauren were flying to Martha’s Vinyard for the wedding of John’s cousin’s  Rory Kennedy, a documentary producer with whom Ethel was pregnant when her husband, presidential candidate Robert Kennedy assassinated.   But the Kennedy family know a lot about death.     JFK was killed in Dallas, two family members  killed in plane crashes in the 1940’s.   Teddy had then deadly crash at Chappiquidic.     He didn’t die, but his passenger died.     Several Kennedy cousins (the third generation) died  various reasons, from illness, a drug overdose and playing football while skiing and catching a 30 yard catch while slamming into a tree.    The Kennedy family has to have grieving down to a science.

I remember doing a few stories on John’s marriage to Carolyn Bessette.    Overall, I wasn’t overly impressed.  We all know the stories about the lusty Kennedy men and as far as that goes,  she was typical Kennedy female fare, blond haired and blue eyes.   I really didn’t think that much of her.    I mean, she was attractive—-it’s not as if John John would marry a dog.    She was petty, from a well to do family and of course, she was as mandatory, a Catholic.    Other than that, it was just another Kennedy wedding.

But it wasn’t until I watched a documentary on the 15th anniversary of the plane crash that I actually noticed Carolyn…almost as if for the first time.

That lead to me becoming a voracious reader about all things CBK.      You rarely hear or see anything about the couple anymore, but I’ve kept her memory very much alive this past year.

If she were alive, I’d love to have a beer with her at some hole in the wall.   I don’t know how I know this , but I firmly belive that underneath the wealthy private  school girl demeanor, the designer clothes, the tony NYC address, the upper crust balls, the cotillions,  high dollar fund raisers, the forced  magazine smiles that never seemed all that easy for her to make.   I just somehow know She was a fairly regular girl who probably didn’t brush her teeth every night and wore unwashed jeans from time to time and farted and burped and laughed at the even the dirtiest jokes.

So, in getting to know Carolyn, first by photos, I thought she  was prettier as a younger woman.  She did some modeling early on and she wore well what was left of her baby fat.

Then she got a job doing PR for Calvin Klein and as the story goes, John came in for a his bespoke suit fitting.    They met and fell in love and maybe a year later, they had a small, secret marriage on an island off the coast of Georgia.

They went to Turkey on their honeymoon and upon their return, John escorted Carolyn out of their TriBeCa apartment, dressed in a sleek brown pencil skirt and black boots, in front of hordes of photographers and camera people, and he begged them to give her her space.  The new Mrs. Kennedy was new to all this media hullabaloo.  Did they oblige?     Oh, hell no.

She was photographed doing everything, everywhere from attending galas to picking up dog doodoo after walking their dog, Friday.   And you could tell it bothered her.   The gorgeous clothes, the pretty long blond hair, piercing blue eyes and long, coltish legs couldn’t hide the “I’m so annoyed look!”.     She was hounded.    Hunted.    Stalked.  And absolutely miserable I would imagine.   And not only that, her father in law, a much loved president assassinat s in such a public…..her  other in law a style and fashion icon.    It was almost a blessing they both died before her relationship with John began, but their ghosts still haunted her.  The media made sure of that.  I can’t imagine how difficult it would have been had she been forced to be a perfect show pony in front of her in laws, much less the surviving Kennedy clan..   Carolyn was pretty snd probably poised and mindful and tactful, but a show pony?    Nope.

I suppose that’s why I began to appreciate her.   John had inherited a lot of money from his mother and from the Kennedy side.      As his wife, Carolyn had had all that money, too….all that access to excess, yet she didn’t seem like a snob.    Her friends and coworkers would tell great stories about her kindness and humanity…..sometimes demonstrating all of these virtues even while wearing a $5000 vintage Valentino gown and uh, that’s in 1998 prices.

Her Patrician profile kind of tells it all.      See the above photo for proof.   It was a perfectly linear as if honed by hand. She would have been an artists’s dream.  Definitely not Dora Marr.

Then, there were rumors flying around that the marriage was in trouble.  She had affairs,  he had affairs.    She and her fashionista  friends were doing a lot of cocaine, a habit which John apparently abhorred.    He wanted kids,  she didn’t.   They were separating one minute, divorcing a week later, recommitting their vows the next day.  It seemed to be a circus inside a carnival ( and one of those thirty traveling kinds) within a circus.    Chaos  and tumult at every turn.    For John, it was no big deal.   He was raised with cameras thrust in his face.    But did he fully understand how absolutely foreign this life was to Carolyn?    Was he frustrated at her inability to cope?

As the years progressed, I can remember seeing Carolyn looking very pale and thin.  Her face had gotten very angular, hollow.  She was pale.   People Magazine published candid shots of the couple walking along New York streets, she looked perfect….even in jeans and little make up , but it was the fact that she and John were holding hands or her arm tucked around his, that almost seemed staged.   They  didn’t look happy and again, keep in mind, that’s Just a very unprofessional opinion.

That said, I’ve probably seen every photo and every video short of the private things the i f family have and would never release to the world.     I’m ordinarily not an obsessive person, but when I find someone who interests me for whatever reason, I’ll read everything I can about them, study every photo and video and these days, one can enter someone’s paycheck by readings every twitter entry, Instagram story, Facebook and Vimeo video.     Narcissism and smart phone filters make this kind of sleuthing so much easier.    You see all their entries and can tell so much about that person.

But I digress.

Carolyn seemed unemotional in most post marriage photos.       I never met her,mint know hervheart or soul, so , anything I say is a presumption, but I doubt she would have taken constant selfies, posed with an archaic book and some foreign coffee drink posting it somewhere and calling it her daily breakfast routine.    She had every reason to be pretentious, but I don’t get the feeling she was.      Perhaps as emotionally skewed as she might have been, she seemed to be the real deal.  Not a poseur.

And with Carolyn, I began to realize it wasn’t that she was  just married to JFK, Jr.,  I was more curious about Carolyn’s life under the microscope of being in this man’s life, which also means being in his big dynastic family.    Her fish bowl existence, all tthe  articles about her good hair days, weight loss rumors, there was this bombardment of her self esteem that she might not have been strong enough to fend off.     Reading all things truly credible and all things completely incredible, I surmised that life for,Carolyn despit all the Kennedy perks, couldn’t have been easy.   I got  the sense that Carolyn became very tightly wound after getting married.      Life had become a prison and freedom, or what little she had, always had to came at a price.   Not unlike Princess  Diana,but then again, doesn’t one have an idea of what one is getting into when marrying royalty, be it British  or even an American version?

If all the authors of all the  books and articles are to be believed, there were abortions, affairs, public arguing, depression, and a separation right before the plane crash.

Like I said, obsession isn’t in my lexicon, not in the classic sense.   I studied Carolyn Bessette Kennedy not to immulate  her—-hell, she was almost six feet tall, I’m practically that in width.   But I know what her favorite parfum was, what her favorite Bobbi Brown eye shadow was and that she liked Bud Light and had large feet, but knowing these things only sated my curiosity.     The sullen eyes told me a whole other story.  I’m not obsessed with CBK, I still feel sorry for her and her life, cut too short.

When she married John John, she married the handsome man AND the media, the gossip mongerung and a very wealthy and mythic family that doesn’t like nonconformists to their ways and means. I feel as though there exists a secret Kennedy Code.    It is a flawed family and almost  as Scotch Guarded as the Clintons.

Where’s the happiness in bei?

What  did that chunky little Italian host of that show all about the seedier, tragic side of  Hollywood say at the end of each show on E!??

“Fame–ain’t it a bitch.”

Carolyn, I’m somsorry that tag line became your reality.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shared Values

Compatibility.

Interesting word; fascinating concept.  It must exist for anything /anyone to co-exist.   And love goggles can make us oblivious to its absence in the beginning of a relationship.     But when icomes apparent it isn’t there, it’ll bitch slap you.

I met a guy years ago and we began a relationship, dazzled by each other for reasons I’ve forgotten.    HE was a writer, as was I.  That’s the one thing that brought us together, but often, what  brings you into s relationship is never enough to keep you in one.037944231311549

You see, he was a vegan.     I was and continue to be an omnivore.   It wasn’t so bad at first.    I tried to eat more salads and humus in his presence, you know, to please him as needy little girl women tend to do.   Then he got all preachy about it.

Eating animal meat, wearing their flesh  or using any by-products were all abominations.    Fortunately, he wasn’t that militant about it.     Had he seen the late fur lover, Joan  Rivers wearing a full fox coat I don’t think he would’ve thrown a bucket of blood on her—-he might have flicked  a booger in her direction maybe, but a bucket of blood, no.

Getting preachy  was one thing, then he got eco-weird.   He’d curse trucks belching out smoke.   Smokestacks were Satan’s cigarettes.    Big Oil was where he worked and Big Pharma was where he vacationed.   He talked Carbon footprints and showed me photos of polar bears clinging to ice cubes.    He also got increasingly homeopathic as a mindset as time progressed and the drugs we once took both out of necessity and yes, sometime for kicks had become sheer poison..

He rode a bike and was a recycling fanatic.    Oh yeah, he was also a pacifist.

It was like living in a Billy Jack movie

I started disliking him and disliking myself for being with him.    I don’t want to kill animals for grins and while I completely admire mink and chinchilla coats,  I don’t own any.    I hate war, but I understand the need for a good national defense.     I respect the work the Earth does to keep us alive and walking upright.

And then there was God.

God , he said, knew little about and cared even less about established organized religion; The Vatican, Billy Graham, the Pope, Mormon Temples, Jewish Temples…..Shirley Temple.     God was in every tree, leaf, rock, bird.     While I believe that to be true, my belief in God  extends a bit beyond that.    God is nature and rainbows and cartoon blue birds and also tornadoes, tsunamis and loss.  And redemption.     But I’m getting off point here.

Anyway, I was starting to resent the shit out of him and he was beginning to hate me holistically, as in, he hated me naturally.    I knew  it was time to end the relationship that only made sense while in the sack and for only  about three weeks.    After that, We were arguing about everything.     My non-vegan  stance was always his opponent.   I explained that once early man stopped eating fruits and nuts and started enjoying mastodon burgers, his brain started growing and reasoning and became a natural, common occurrence.   He didn’t care.   Anthropological folklore, as far as he was concerned.   He’d then toss out some quote from George Bernard Shaw (I think, I’m too lazy to look it up) about ” animals are my friends and I don’t  eat my friends”.

He ate nothing that had a face or came from anything that had a face.     No milk products, butter…..or God forbid, lard.   NOTHING WITH A FACE, he’d insist.

One night, we into a fight about something because we both needed the excuse and ultimately, agreed to end the relationship.   My position, he said in the parlance of his fanaticism, was being repurposed.      It was a loud fight, it was mean and there were tears shed over things he said that can never be recanted.     But some things I said I’ll never  regret.    Be a vegan, hug a tree, fear fracking, live in a commune where mascara is forbidden,  condemn who and what you want, let your underarm hair grow to Rapunzel length, just please refrain from being a pompous bore about it.

He stormed upstairs and slammed the door, demanding that I leave the premises immediately.    I agreed I would after I gathered a few things.

And I did, but  NOT without leaving my mark.     I took a Magic Marker and made little smiley faces on all the vegetables in his fridge.

Then I left, in search of the nearest Burger King.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Political Fan Bases & Religion

Hillary Clinton’s desperation is quite sad.

She was begging for votes the other day, not cool for a Clinton for m everything always seems go swimmingly. Or so it would appear. Hill even toted out Madeline Albright as a shill. Really? Most of the younger voters she so covets weren’t even born when Maddie was wearing ugly broaches in prime time.

So, is Hillary’s campaign in crisis? Well kids, I’m really not qualified to opine, BUT as a former broadcast journalist with 30 years in the trenches, I can recognize fear in someone’s eyes.

And what’s scaring Hillary her is an older, rather frail, balding, hunchbacked zayde of a man. No, not her husband, Bill Clinton.

It’s Bernie Sanders.

I watch his campaign stumps and notice the audience, filled with 20-somethings all gacked out on this age appropriate idealism. My first instinct is to tell them, enjoy it now.

I was only four when President John Kennedy was killed, but I’m something of an assassination buff and have spent a lot of time reading and You-Tubing his life. His audiences remind me of those who clamor for The Bern. Kennedy won because he wasn’t Dwight Eisenhauer. It didn’t hurt that he was young and handsome when compared to those who held the office before him. He had a well-heeled young wife who loved art and history and couture. Her style was mind blowing in her time. Together, they had two cute young kids. He came from a large family who was already storied back in 1963. He also had dreams and goals and that spoke to baby boomers, most just entering the legal age to vote.

I see the same zeal in Bernie zealots. Personally, I’m too jaded to believe all that Sanders is feeding his minions. Over the years, I’ve heard all the campaign promises and my lifetime, I think the ONLY president that ever kept a real, campaign promise was Lyndon Johnson. He established the Great Society which in part, gave all of our Black brothers and sisters the right to vote without suppression of any kind.

Hillary can beg to differ but she is establishment and her audience it seems, reflects thst. They appear to be mostly older females. I don’t chide these broads. They’re not that much older than me and they were probably the first ones to burn their bras while freely burning a big fattie. These women were gender suffragettes during the ERA years. I respect them, but Hillary can’t win with this demographic. Even when her husband comes out swinging. As I mentioned above, is Cltinon version 5.0. He’s not that much younger than Bernie and he looks it. In Texas, we say “he looks road hard and hung up wet”. Then again, nothing ages you more than eight years in the Oval Office. Take one look at Obama’s ever-growing jowels.

To me, the vocal minority of Trump fans seem to be blue collar white guys. Late 40’s and up. Lots of gimme caps.

Rubio’s fan-base? Looks mixed to me.

Bush? I glance at is audience and it appears to be comprised of older people who are mostly pale skinned. If younger, they’re preppies.

Cruz? See above.

Kasich, Fiorina and Dr. Ben? To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve seen any coverage of their events to opine.

So, let’s segue to the candidates’ religions. Not that it matters, but I’ll make a point about that in a bit. Trump is Christian, Hillary is Mathodist. Kasich is Anglican. Dr. Carson is a Seventh Day Adventist. Fiorina is currently a non-dnominational Christian. Cruz is an Evangelical with Southern Baptist ties. Bush, Rubio and Christie are Catholic and Bernie Sanders is the first Jewish contender for president. Now, this makes for some interesting dissonance–Bernie is married to a non-Jewish woman, which according to Jewish law, makes his grandchildren non-Jewish. Trump’s daughter Ivanka converted to Judaism before getting married, making his grandchildren Jewish.

Fortunately for most thinking people, religion today is a sidebar within a footnote. Now, what candidates believe has become more more important than how they practice their beliefsis. We’ve certainly evolved as an electorate since 1960. That’s when Kennedy ran against Nixon and won, making him the very first Catholic elected into executive office and it didn’t come without bigoted drama. There were a lot of people who were actually scared of any political repercussions due to Kennedys perceived links to The Vatican.

Really, it’s all quite laughable all these years later.

The Latest GOP Debate

I watched the whole thing.

Political commentary will appear shortly. I must start this post with a comment about one of the under-moderators and one of the candidates particularly and all of them, generally. These comments come from from a purely broadcasting POV.

1)–Josh McElveen, is a Political Director or Reporter, probably both at a station in the tiny TV market of Manchester, NH. Did you hear him speak? A slightly more masculine version of Greta van Sustern, hand to God. He swallowed every suffix. I had a hard time understanding him.

2–Will someone in Gov. Chris Christie’s campaign PLEASE teach him something/anything about popping his “P’s” into the microphone??? It’s annoying on a Karsahsian level. And here’s a hint for every candidate and amplifted public speaker in the world–please understand the sensitivity of the microphones and how pounding points home on the podiums (pop THAT Christie!!) are audible through the mics. Oy, I’ve heard less thumping and pounding in the rap music the all the kids today seem to love. It was as if Snoop MC Cool Ice moved in next door.

Sorry…I watched Larry David host Saturday Night Live.

So, on a serious, more goyish note, I’d have to say Marco Rubio lost the debate as much Christie won it. The Jersey Boy was on a mission and needed to win the debate as much as Peyton Manning wants another certain gold ring. Watching Rubio’s repetitive use of the Obama phrase on a continuous loop, is painful to watch. FOX News has been skewering him. Despite his microphone and pronunciation issues, I’ve always liked Christie, but prior to Saturday night’s debate, it was never enough for me to vote for him. He’s winning me over.

I was supporting Rubio, but during the broadcast, I could clearly see his Boy Scout milk mustache on his upper lip. The child needs more political seasoning. I feel that the 2020’s will be his decade.

Bush? Nice guy I suppose, but his last name is a burden in this political climate and yeah, I voted for his brother…twice.

Cruz? Meh.

Kasich? Dr. Ben? Fiorina? The Professor and Mary Ann? Footnotes.

Trump? Liked him too—in the beginning when his shtick was novel. But it’s growing tiresome. I’m losing my political patience as I get older and Trump’s behavior and comments have become cringeworthy for me. As for his popularity on the Internet, online searches and debate results polls? I’m a Republican, but I’ll admit, his incessant perch high atop the American political consciousness reminds me how the unshorn, creepy Sanjay surged to 7th place on the sixth season of American Idol.

Sanjay probably did it old school back in 2009, but hey, having the financial access to all the latest campaign hardware ever made is worth the investment.

The Cursing of Donald Trump

Trump said fuck twice and shit once in a speech, not cussing into a mic he thought was dead, mind you…no, this was live and on purpose.

So?

It’s not the first time he’s cussed and it won’t be the last. And now, the opportunists are all over him just for saying what they all think, what the candidates all say off mic. With the exception of Dr. Ben Carson, perhaps.

“Golly, I can’t affix this endovacular detachable coil properly and by the way, that Donald Trump is a rapscallion.”

But Laurie, they’ll cry, godly people like Dr. Carson don’t cuss and neither do proper people of good breeding And certainly anyone seeking the office of president can’t call ISIS a bunch of pricks!!

Not in public.

But why not in public??? Isn’t this one of the secrets to Trump’s political success? He says what he thinks and often what we think? I’m not a 100-percent Trumpeter, but considering what the status quo hath wrought over the years, I like that he’s different. Personally, I would have LOVED it if in the subsequent days after 9/11, Bush would have stood on the smoking pile that was once the World Trade Center towers, and shouted into that bullhorn, “”And the motherfuckers who brought these buildings down will soon hear from all of us!!”

Look, I believe in free speech. I believe if free listening. You have a right to hear what you want and if that doesn’t include the dialogue of most Scorsese films, that’s fine. Not using profanity is fine. I believe in editing where needed but don’t give me the “kids were watching” argument. I doubt if anyone under the age of 43 watched Trump’s speech, but on the off chance any did, I feel certain they only heard the edited for broadcast version and if they caught the unedited version, they weren’t hearing anything new. I speak from experience.

In 1968, I was eight years old; prime time for a certain nine-year-old ginger headed friend to introduce me to the word and what it meant. She explained that the F word was verb and occured when a boy or girl touches the other person’s teetee—our catch all phrase for genitals. So, in my kid mind, I thought it included even the most innocent of contact. If that was the case, I was a whore. I’d recently learned to change a young cousin’s diaper. Yikes.

The whole thing had an air of Greek tragedy to it. But I soon learned all that was involved with the colloquialism and even how to use it properly.

And let’s just say, I learned well. I’ve always used expletives, it was like the decorations on a Christmas tree. Cussing punctuated emotions, expressed points in specific ways. But as worldly as I thought I was, first job in broadcasting made me feel as though I had virgin ears. I’ve heard stevedores cuss less. News people cuss with abundance. And so do politicians, bankers, truck drivers, teachers, chefs, athletes (every level), military types, Republiczns, Democrats…everyone. I realized the working world cusses a lot. I’ve heard poor people, wealthy folks, white collared/no collared can cuss a blue streak. Curse words of all persuasions are used as verbs, nouns and adjectives in movies, all over You Tube, in rap songs and the Stone Temple Pilots considered Jeremy to be a “harmless little F-word”, but he wasn’t, was he?

And as for cussing not being ‘presidential, well neither is cronyism, nepotism, graf, or having extramarital affairs.

White House interns are optional.