Just a reminder. 2017 is 100 years later than 1917.

And our latest book is on sale at Amazon:


A world war all the European nations wanted, started by the assassination of a minor aristocrat, pursued by incompetent generals who thought they’d win in a week and then slew an entire generation of young men in a single blood-soaked trench called the Western Front. Who do you call? The Americans. Who had fought the first Modern War half a century before and knew how to win them. You need a Grant, a Sherman, a Pershing. Which we had. The point of Pershing’s spear was the Rainbow Division. My grandfather was a captain of infantry in one of the most illustrious regiments in the Rainbow Division. The 166th. This book consists of his letters home and his 1918 journal from the ghastliest front of the twentieth century.

Stones on Hurricanes

For those who believe hurricanes have meaning, can be personified, are somehow portentous.

For the MSM, whose sole desire is to promote panic.

For all the Deplorables who save lives because that’s their nature.

For all the ones who think they can somehow get away.

For the ones who are smarter than that. What will be will be.

How are they going to make out? Mostly fine.

You heard it here first.




Storms happen.

As a rule, we feel kind of protected here in South Jersey. No tornadoes raking houses into splinters and all that, no mudslides, no wildfires, no avalanches, no earthquakes. But the truth is, storms happen at intervals, even here. I’ve been through a bunch in my lifetime, and none of them had to do with climate change. Just weather being its usual irascible and wildly unpredictable self.

My first hurricane was Donna, back when hurricanes all had girl names. 1960. She snapped off trees, big ones, and tore away the power lines. We had to flee like refugees to grandparent homes where they also had murdered trees but retained electricity.


My next hurricane, some years later, was at sea, technically irrelevant here as I experienced it in the South Atlantic onboard an ocean liner which just barely survived. Her name was Beulah. The ship, when she finally reached harbor in New York, was a battered and rusted wreck. Want to experience a hurricane up close? Watch 30 foot waves toss an ocean liner around like a cork for eight hours, sitting on the floor while glass breaks and grand pianos moonwalk across a ballroom.

There was also Floyd, a weak sister of a hurricane who was mostly rain and pushed over trees by making the ground soggy. I remember strolling through the village of Greenwich during the eye and thinking Donna would have laughed at Floyd. Then there was Sandy, who butchered the shore but mostly gave us, you guessed it, rain.

Thing is, there’s more than one kind of storm. They don’t name the ones that come in the winter. Those they just give dates — the Blizzard of ’87 or suchlike — and your only documentation is anecdotal. 

I remember living in Philly in the 80s, and there was so much snow one year that whole rows of cars disappeared, and the few navigable streets were just narrow tunnels between snow banks.

Back in Jersey in the 90s, there was a freak ice storm that locked my MR2 in the driveway for two weeks, turned my Harley into a lovely ice sculpture, and took out the electricity for a week because ice kills power with a thousand tiny breaks in the lines, not a single downed electrical station. We camped in the living room, feeding wood into a small fireplace and eating cold food from cans.

A few years back we had a derecho, a dry hurricane that deprived us of electricity for five days. I sent my wife north and stayed with the dogs because somebody had to. First time I really believed I might die because of a storm. Temperatures were in the high nineties, the dogs were catatonic, and so, I concede, was I.

Storms happen. They happen all the time, even in what seem like the magically protected places. You can dream up conspiracy theories all you want, but the truth is, it’s just life on earth. It’s not change. It’s the rule. As the French say, “plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”

Should I not be content? Nowhere to go.

So I’m being singled out for extermination. Not for nipples. For what I’ve done, written, and recorded. 30 years worth. They can’t wipe that away if you don’t let them. If you want to endorse me, buy my books.

https://www.amazon.com/R-F.-Laird/e/B00J8VKZQQ. (Interesting. WordPress won’t make this obvious link live.. You know. Don’t let them look at the forbidden material.)

I did everything I could. It wasn’t enough obviously. Just enough to get me noticed, singled out, and shut down. Well, life is like that. 

So far, Amazon hasn’t caught on to what a threat I am. Three more books on the way.

“(P)articles of InstaPunk”. “All That’s Left of The Naked Woman.” And “InstaPunk on Matters Religious.”

i am content. All my life, I have given it my best shot. I will continue to do so. Until my last breath. But I can’t fight Big Brother without you. 

I’ve been fighting the lefty A’holes all my life. Growing tired. Time for you to do something maybe..





i guess I should be saying Who Cares? Facebook doesn’t like me showing nipples just as The City of Berkeley is determined to give women the right to be bare breasted and nippletastic. One of the pics they banned me for featured a news photograph, black barred to conceal (gasp) nipples, showing a feminist screaming for her right to be as naked as she wanted to be. Since I showed the censored news photo, I’m violating Facebook standards. Got it.

i’m banned for showing bare breasts, which are legal in New York and practically everywhere else in the U.S. 

But that’s not the real story. I’m being shut down and closed out at Facebook. And elsewhere. Told the story before. Predicted this. 

Go ahead. Try to access InstaPunk.com, InstapunkRules.com, or me at Facebook.com. Not happening. I’m a lifelong conservative. Want some irony?

The Phoenix SK Club. Libeled in the movie they made about Zuckerberg. He wanted to be a member of a Harvard final club. Didn’t get in. I was president of that club in 1973. Since then I have written a bunch of books and no longer care about money. At all. But some people never stop obsessing about laurels they can never have.

i can live without Facebook. Can you? 

Meet me here. We can still have fun.







Leni, Leni Tekel Upharsin

Leni Riefenstahl was probably the greatest propagandist of the twentieth century. She was a brilliant cinematographer, and she made the milestone Hitler movie,”The Triumph of the Will.”

Bad eyes. Always bad eyes with sociopaths.

Thing is, she really had no politics. She was in love with images of masculine and feminine beauty. Sex and sex and sex. She escaped the purge of ex-Nazis someho and went hunting with her camera in Africa.

Older but all the more a voyeur.

Great photos.


Ve luv us some hunky Männer.

And some frauleins too.

Beautiful pics, but they buy her no forgiveness, because she did this too:

Arid amoral talent is ultimately empty. Something millennials should set about learning. They’re well on the way to a place Dante described in detail.





Everybody in Washington is gray and brown and kind of melted. Blondes tend to be individual because bold and not easily controlled. Why there has never been a blonde president before. (You could look it up.) Maybe why they hate him so. Think about it. Never a blonde president. Not once. Outrageous. They make jokes about us. Especially about our womenfolk, who can’t help how they are. We are compelled to call this bias “blondism.”


In the movies (why?), blondes are always stereotypes, of good, evil, astonishing physical beauty and bravery, and cunning, and intelligence despite their low IQs, and the really fine looking breasts of our wives, and, well, always winning in the end.

The fastest gun. 

The saddest man.

The scariest, meaning the really truly scariest..

The nightmare. Why you can’t sleep.

The best of the best and the worst of the worst. Take it from me, Peter O’Toole was blond.
Yeah. They’re always the ones you think of in supernatural terms, as opposed to Martin Scorsese’s beaten up Booklynites. What’s the difference? Ultimate hero, ultimate villain, ultimate boy toy, ultimate piece of ass. Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue wouldn’t exist without blondes. You know it and I know it. And then there are the blonde men: Robert Redford, Brad Pitt, James Dean, Thor, and such. Sometimes shining, sometimes doomed. The best and the worst. Why the whole world watches.
Yeah. They’re almost always the villains these days. Heroes back then. But villain parts are way more fun to play. Blonde hair = evil. I c’n do that. Who dat who wanna play? Evil be da fun game.

Even, well, especially, the women.
Lana Turner.

Her movies were almost as salacious as her life.
 Veronica Lake.

  4′ 10″ and and a fall of blonde hair.
 Grace Kelly.

I was there when she was there but I fell in love with Edith Sanski at Menton instead..

Kim Novak

She was the only woman who was a Nemesis for James Stewart.

Everybody knows that blonds still rule everything. They don’t like it. Blonds don’t seek it. They’re content to have incredibly awful jokes told about them. Truth is, everybody wants to be a blond.

Until the guy who put five bullets in your blond back thinks he should give you one more.

Eastwood used to be blonde. So did I. We got so discriminated for it. All we can say is, Blonde Lives Matter.

btw, you think Clint’s cold? Try Fred.

Those brown haired guys are blondists like you wouldn’t believe.