If you are of a certain age, your Glory Days are locked away in memory. You may have one or two photo albums, loosely bound, pictures MIA, and those that remain, burnt from the sun or the rotating flash of your Kodak camera. When you went out, stuff happened, and the next day, broken telephone ensued. The truth was debatable. Denial worked.
Today, not so much. Even staffers have to sleep at some point, leaving those perched on the highest of perches to their own devices. Those things on the Internet propagate gossip at an alarming rate. What was said requires no interpretation, it is simply photographed and handed over to two friends, who tell a zillion. And so, we wake up in the morning, check our things, and find ourselves in a fit of laughter that persists throughout the day. Covfefe.
Presidents, however, have some leeway. Even when the one paid to keep their eye on the ball does not, the staffer eventually wakes up, checks things on the Internet, faints, gets up off the floor, and makes a desperate call, screaming “DELETE LAST TWEET!” And the PR machine kicks into gear.
Teenagers, not so much. Their staffers are not even aware that there was a party or there are things on the Internet upon which an eye must be kept. Teenagers tweet, retweet, emote, in the heat of the moment (like those perched in high places), but unlike the famous ones, they fly solo. No net. No lit pathways to the emergency exit. No safe landing.