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thank you lane

I don’t know – it’s hard for me to see any U.S. ties to Russia…
except for the Flynn thing
and the Manafort thing
and the Tillerson thing
and the Sessions thing
and the Kushner thing
and the Carter Page thing
and the Roger Stone thing
and the Felix Sater thing
and the Boris Ephsteyn thing
and the Rosneft thing
and the Gazprom thing
and the Sergey Gorkov banker thing
and the Azerbajain thing
and the “I love Putin” thing
and the Donald Trump, Jr. thing
and the Sergey Kislyak thing
and the Russian Affiliated Interests thing
and the Russian Business Interests thing
and the Emoluments Clause thing
and the Alex Schnaider thing
and the hack of the DNC thing
and the Guccifer 2.0 thing
and the Mike Pence “I don’t know anything” thing
and the Russians mysteriously dying thing
and Trump’s public request to Russia to hack Hillary’s email thing
and the Trump house sale for $100 million at the bottom of the housing bust to the Russian fertilizer king thing
and the Russian fertilizer king’s plane showing up in Concord, NC during Trump rally campaign thing
and the Nunes sudden flight to the White House in the night thing
and the Nunes personal investments in the Russian winery thing
and the Cyprus bank thing
and Trump not releasing his tax returns thing
and the Republican Party’s rejection of an amendment to require Trump to show his taxes thing
and the election hacking thing
and the GOP platform change to the Ukraine thing
and the Steele Dossier thing
and the Leninist Bannon thing
and the Sally Yates can’t testify thing
and the intelligence community’s investigative reports thing
and Trump’s reassurance that the Russian connection is all “fake news” thing
and Spicer’s Russian Dressing “nothing’s wrong” thing
so there’s probably nothing there
since the swamp has been drained, these people would never lie probably why Nunes cancels the investigation meetings
all of this must be normal just a bunch of separate dots with no connection.

—Lane Crothers

THE COMET OF 1812

Hard as it is In the coming days I watch my friend in her strange unnatural state
Don’t let her out of my sight
She trails off Stares at nothing Laughs at random and the letters come

She waits at the window And I listen at the door

Until one day I see by the sad look on her face
That there is a dreadful plan in her heart

I know you are capable of anything I know you so well my friend
I know you might just run away What am I to do?

Who do I ask for help? Is it all on me? Is it all on me?

I will stand in the dark for you
I will hold you back by force
I will stand here right outside your door
I won’t see you disgraced
I will protect your name and your heart
Because I miss my friend

I know you’ve forgotten me
I know you so well my friend
I know you might just throw yourself over
But I won’t let you I won’t let you It’s all on me

I remember this family I remember your kindness And if I never sleep again

I will stand in the dark for you
I will hold you back by force
I will stand here right outside your door I won’t see you disgraced
I will protect your name and your heart
Because I miss my friend Because
I miss my friend Because I miss you, my friend

FEATHERS

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

had u the BASIC HUMAN DECENCY –
to reach out and ask
b4 u ONCE AGAIN PAID HER MONEY –
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
CHARLES LACHMAN

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
metrosexual

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

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

MAYA

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.