EVERYBODY WORTH KNOWING, or so it seemed.

       But it's true.  That's who I have known.  
       Having set my computer aside as I have been alive long enough to have to go to the skin doctor to make sure I will have things taken care of so I can live even longer, I went over what I have written recently and discovered that it is not so much that THEY are dead, the people worth knowing, as the people who seem to get the attention of Today.  I cannot even write the name(I think I finally did, once) of the horror who grabs TV attention and now even a small crowd or so outside the Montage Hotel where she stays(and I mention the name only because my beloved Mr. Bowling, Frank, once and for all the years that it still counted, manager of the Hotel Bel-Air, is an executive there.)   Undoubtedly he will be going to the funeral of Nancy Reagan, as she lunch-quartered there, (a substitute for headquartered) when there were women who could still walk, wear designer clothes and eat at the same time. Though not very much.
     I have been going over all of my recently sent REPORTS to try and determine what it is I should be writing, and have come to the conclusion that it is what I have been, since everybody worth knowing is probably dead, with the exception of Ellen the head of Share, sister of Maxine the artist and wife of Gary Smith, the last selfless man in show business, who still does it because it is a good idea and not because he is seeking a reward.  The very word "memoir" is repellent to me, as it seems so pretentious and self-important, and I have such a good title for my not-to-be-referred-to as "memoir" it is a shame to refer to it as anything other than its title, which I am afraid of giving away, as everybody is so less than honest and real they are elevating Kardashians. There, I couldn't help it.
      When I think of the sands of Bali, washing up the murdered, and all the places I have been lucky enough to go and be and be almost realized fully, except for the love affairs I might have had if I had been less choosy, I become almost wistful.  There are still some things that eat at my soul, mostly that Sandy, my favorite friend, the flawless journalist and totally un-self-involved human being, was killed by the man who elevated himself with their relationship and tried to elevate himself even further after her homicide which I can't quite call murder, as maybe it was just something that happened because he was drunk and he didn't intend.  Isn't it funny how you can't ever let that go, just because she was such an amazing human being who always got the facts straight except about the man she was living with.  Or maybe that was just insight, and journalists don't come equipped with that: all they can see is the facts, and the fact that she would be killed by him was not there for her to see in advance.
    Just as the facts of Donald Trump, whose true ancestral name was Drump, which is really more like telling it how it is, seem to be invisible to those who actually admire him.  They are sadly and apparently, though not to them, unaware of how scary he is.  The real upside of being Old, is the fact that one won't have to be around.  What is most sad about it, in my opinion, clearly opinionated, is that Bernie's program of getting everybody educated could not be realized in retrospect, so people could see how awful Drump is.  When you strike that not quite exactly on the MacBook Air, you get Trump, Dump, Drum, Rump, Grump, Crump and Frump.
     Maybe it knows better than we do.