The PR Blog

Comedy. The Last Frontier. 

The Marshalls have moved in. The posses are out in force. The lynch mobs are around every piece of tumbleweed, ambush alley or Acme shed. 

No one is safe from the hanging tree if you are white, heterosexual, conservative and can still have a  laugh.  Hell, even the black conservatives are in the firing line. 

In a world where political correctness tiptoes on eggshells, navigating the fine line between being offended and being offensive has become an art form.   

All I can say is no wonder the chicken crossed the road. She hoped it would be safer on the other side. Only it isn't. Because to get to the other side means you have to cross a highway of laws, hate speech accusations and lawsuits. The poor chicken rarely makes it. And, if she does, she is roasted for giving a cluck. 

Every joke these days is reported to a moderator on social media because someone was offended. It seems to me that to laugh these days, is offensive. 

I have always been fascinated by lighthouses. The power of a man-made structure standing as a guardian to shield us from the fury and power of the sea. 

Though, these days, we seem to need men to stand as guardians to shield us from the fury and power of our fellow man and government.

It struck me that when we confront problems head on, we find solutions. Ignoring the incoming storm does not make it go away. 

Without a light to guide us during the tempest, we are doomed to a life in darkness and perpetual fear of being drowned by a tempest that seems to be building by the day. 

Speckled about the steep slopes are clumps of small, fieldstone cottages. Their crumbling mortar and aging stones are victim to the ravages of time. Sprawling green meadows, vivid and fertile lay terraced and latticed-worked with pastel pinks and blues of the prolific hydrangeas which form hedgerows and borders.

Throughout the town streets are narrow, they dart willy-nilly between tall houses.  The hooves of a horse resound as it gently picks its way over dark cobblestones  polished to a sheen by countless feet before. Upon its weary back and mounted side-saddle an old man journeys.

Although late summer the air is already crisp as it transports and mingles the salty tang of sea and other heady aromas that give a hint to the freshly made cheese and bread still browning in the ovens. This, somehow, remains commonplace to the people of the Azores.

We have women who are supposedly running our different States, countries and active in our governments. .     

Once upon a time  that would have been done with responsibility and efficiency  and with dignity .    There are some very capable and excellent  ladies  but, we are being let down, because some of the women  seem to do is make poor decisions  and certainly not do what is best for  the people they are supposed to represent.     We have two choices  ,  get rid of them and find some Margaret Thatcher ladies  or try and  find some Gentlemen who have some  guts to put to right so many  wrongs. 

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be beautiful. Clever. Successful. 

Oh to be pretty. To be as wonderful as my mother. To marry a man as great as my Dad. To meet a boy as strong as my older brothers. 

I have to wonder what young children grow up to aspire to be in today's age of confusion, gender politics and exaggerated fake body parts? 

The first time I thought of myself as an " emerging woman " as opposed to a girl was when I saw the movie " Dr No " with Ursula Andress emerging out of the water to a rather gorgeous James Bond played by Sean Connery.