Archive for March 2017


In a small town somewhere in Eastern Europe lived a nice man with a nasty problem: he talked too much about other people. He could not help himself. Whenever he heard a story about somebody he knew, and sometimes about somebody he did not know, he just had to tell it to his friends. Since he was in business, he heard quite a lot of rumors and stories. He loved the attention he got, and was delighted when they laughed because of the way he told his “anecdotes,” which he sometimes embellished with little details he invented to make them funnier and juicier. Other than that, he was really a pleasant, goodhearted man.

He kind of knew it was wrong, but . . . it was too tempting, and in any case, most of what he told had really happened, didn’t it? Many of his stories were just innocent and entertaining, weren’t they?

One day he found out something really weird (but true) about another businessman in town. Of course he felt compelled to share what he knew with his colleagues, who told it to their friends, who told it to people they knew, who told it to their wives, who spoke with their friends and their neighbors. It went around town, till the unhappy businessman who was the main character in the story heard it. He ran to the rabbi of the town, and wailed and complained that he was ruined! Nobody would like to deal with him after this. His good name and his reputation were gone with the wind.

Now this rabbi knew his customers, so to speak, and he decided to summon the man who loved to tell stories. If he was not the one who started them, he might at least know who did.

When the nice man with the nasty problem heard from the rabbi how devastated his colleague was, he felt truly sorry. He honestly had not considered it such a big deal to tell this story, because it was true; the rabbi could check it out if he wanted. The rabbi sighed.

“True, not true, that really makes no difference! You just cannot tell stories about people. This is all lashon hara, slander, and it’s like murder—you kill a person’s reputation.” He said a lot more, and the man who started the rumor now felt really bad and sorry. “What can I do to make it undone?” he sobbed. “I will do anything you say!”

The rabbi looked at him. “Do you have any feather pillows in your house?” “Rabbi, I am not poor; I have a whole bunch of them. But what do you want me to do, sell them?”

“No, just bring me one.”

The man was mystified, but he returned a bit later to the rabbi’s study with a nice fluffy pillow under his arm. The rabbi opened the window and handed him a knife. “Cut it open!”

“But Rabbi, here in your study? It will make a mess!”

“Do as I say!”

And the man cut the pillow. A cloud of feathers came out. They landed on the chairs and on the bookcase, on the clock, on the cat which jumped after them. They floated over the table and into the teacups, on the rabbi and on the man with the knife, and a lot of them flew out of the window in a big swirling, whirling trail.

The rabbi waited ten minutes. Then he ordered the man: “Now bring me back all the feathers, and stuff them back in your pillow. All of them, mind you. Not one may be missing!”

The man stared at the rabbi in disbelief. “That is impossible, Rabbi. The ones here is the room I might get, most of them, but the ones that flew out of the window are gone. Rabbi, I can’t do that, you know it!”

“Yes,” said the rabbi and nodded gravely, “that is how it is: once a rumor, a gossipy story, a ‘secret,’ leaves your mouth, you do not know where it ends up. It flies on the wings of the wind, and you can never get it back!”

He ordered the man to deeply apologize to the person about whom he had spread the rumor; that is difficult and painful, but it was the least he could do. He ordered him to apologize to the people to whom he had told the story, making them accomplices in the nasty lashon hara game, and he ordered him to diligently study the laws concerning lashon hara every day for a year, and then come back to him.

That is what the man did. And not only did he study about lashon hara, he talked about the importance of guarding your tongue to all his friends and colleagues. And in the end he became a nice man who overcame a nasty problem.

truth inside inside

my 19 year old daughter
adopted by me at two months old
was once again paid by inside edition
to talk about her life and me

chelsea left my home in august 2015 at 17
and has not spent a night under my roof since
she has been to rehab two times since going
both times she left early AMA

each time with the assistance of nick alliegro
who married her in 2016 in secret
she was 18 – he was 30
he has kicked her out many times since then

chelsea attempted suicide on labor day
she refused rehab treatment
went to wisconsin alone
to live with her birth family

nick allegro picked chelsea up there in wisconsin
shortly before christmas
in late december
nick was arrested for domestic violence

chelsea agreed to attend SILVERHILL hospital
the doctors there found a hole in her frontal lobe
most like from a stroke in utero
this severely compromises her cognitive abilities
and always has

and in some ways
i hope – frees her
from the debilitating shame
she struggles to life thru daily

she left SILVERHILL in feb
against medical advice
and until last nights inside edition
we had no idea if she were alive or dead

no one from inside edition called me
no one tried to tweet me
i had the EPs phone number
in 14 minutes


Rosie O’Donnell:
charles lachman – this is rosie o’donnell
my daughter has an IQ of 86
she has a hole in her frontal lobe
she left SILVERHILL hospital AMA last month
no one has seen or heard from her

to reach out and ask
money she will use for drugs

Charles Lachman
I can call you at 10:15 to discuss.
I’m on a crowded Amtrak train right now.

Rosie O’Donnell:

what is wrong with u charles –
have u no heart –
no children – no basic humanity
shame – truly – on u

my daughter is probably shooting up
– from ur easy money
– enjoy ur train ride

the plumber husband…
did u even look –
he was arrested for domestic violence
in jan

theres ur fucking story
thanks charles
thank u
from a 55 yr old
mother of 5
w/drug compromised children

and charles –
it took me 20 mins to get to u –
someone could have easily reached me
had u tried


we spoke
shocked to find him an adult of 63
i expected a 40 something

i yelled
his defense
my publicist
threatened them – over the phone
the first time they interviewed

YES THATS HER JOB – i screamed
to keep predatory press
from my mental compromised
adolescent daughter

she was not at boarding school
as u reported the first time
she was in residential treatment
nearly her whole life

i googled u chuck
after we hung up
impressive work as an author
with children of ur own

may they always be healthy
and should they not
lets hope the toxic tabloids
don’t feed on them

nancy glass is famous
i am sure there would be a way to sell that story
and some prick
would give your sick child money

ur heart would break chuck

and u would wonder
what you could do
to save her
from men like u


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.