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Leslie Gaines, purported “filmmaker”

leslie the asshole

Leslie Gaines is a criminal, a con man and an artistic failure.  He stole business assets from me personally, to the tune of six figures.  Yes:  $$$,$$$  He has left a bloody trail of many other duped & broken former “partners” behind him.  I pity anyone who trusts him with their priceless time, credit rating, camera equipment, or vehicles.  In addition to those crimes, he invaded my home and physically assaulted me.  He is currently hiding out in Montana, plotting his next big con job.  Warning:  do not ever, under any circumstances, believe one word this man utters.

He is a pathological liar.  He never speaks truth.  He sheds crocodile tears.  He is a bad actor.  He is a bad “filmmaker.”  He is a hypocrite, a racist, and a descendant of General Gaines, one of the foremost murderers of native Americans in this country’s history.  He, himself, is quite literally cursed by the Seminole and the Miccosuccee tribes — they have judgments against him for millions:  $,$$$,$$$, and he will never be able to own property in his own name as long as he lives. I believe he is suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s, or some other form of dementia.  Or, just as likely, he has just rotted his brain with too much drinking & drugging.

He abuses women, uses & emotionally abuses everyone he meets, and continues to steal & abuse me emotionally by using my deceased brother’s name as a credit on his illegally obtained footage!  I pray that he doesn’t harm anyone else.  Look at his face and run from it, should you see him.  Forewarned is forearmed.  I owe the world this warning, both as a human being and a fourth generation attorney.

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18 responses to “Leslie Gaines, purported “filmmaker”

  1. How terrible for you!

    Liked by you

  2. oh, don’t worry. he’ll get what he deserves! 🙂

    Liked by you and 1 other person

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  15. theyellowdaily

    A friend found your blog post shortly after this person contacted me and asked me to work on a project with him. Unfortunately, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Wish I had listened. He is a bully and a con man – tried to get me to sign a document that would give him 4 years of my hard work. And, give himself a lot of money for doing nothing. He wants me to pay him for things I never asked for or wanted and refuses to let me see the receipts. Something real wrong there – the constant emails, phone calls and messages – “we need to talk about…” but we had just talked about it three days before. Yes, I don’t think that the drugs or alcohol help him any but things seem more sinister than that. He makes me want to get in the shower and wash the filth away – to scrub and scrub. Anyone who is thinking about getting involved with this person really needs to pay attention to what has been said because this person will hurt you – in my opinion.

    Liked by you

    • He got away with $66,000 of mine shortly after I had brain surgery. He knew exactly what he was doing… we had been friends for nearly 15 years. He took advantage of my illness & our former friendship to squeeze me like a lemon. He forgot I am a writer, a lawyer, and an academic. He has forgotten what being honest is like. He has lost whatever it was that made him fully human. I can only pray that he gets it back & I get back what he stole from my children.

      Liked by you

      • theyellowdaily

        I don’t know how you keep looking at that face. It does not surprise me that he took advantage of a friend and won’t surprise me when we hear of more incidents in the future. I hope you get the money back but really doubt that would ever happen. He is no doubt onto scamming the next person now.

        Liked by you

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Proposed Articles of Impeachment of Donald J. Trump for Treason

impeachment-proceedings-ticket-august-1974

February 17, 2017 (Friday, all fucking day)

Oy. The presser. Draft the articles of impeachment, ASAP, Gilligan. I’ll go over them when you’re done.

Proposed Articles of Impeachment (as drafted by Kimberly Townsend Palmer)

RESOLVED, that Donald J. Trump, President of the United States, is hereby impeached for high crimes and misdemeanors, and the following articles of impeachment are to be exhibited to the Senate:

ARTICLES OF IMPEACHMENT EXHIBITED BY THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IN THE NAME OF ITSELF AND OF ALL OF THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AGAINST DONALD J. TRUMP, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, IN MAINTENANCE AND SUPPORT OF HIS IMPEACHMENT AGAINST HIM FOR HIGH CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS.

ARTICLE 1

Donald J. Trump, in his conduct of the office of President of the United States, in violation of his constitutional oath faithfully to execute the office of President of the United States and, to the best of his ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, and in violation of his constitutional duty to take care that the laws be faithfully executed, has committed treason and prevented, obstructed, and impeded the administration of justice, in that:

Donald J. Trump, personally and through his close subordinates and agents, has committed treason by maintaining covert and unlawful contact with agents of Russia.

Donald J. Trump, personally and through his close subordinates and agents, has committed treason by providing covert and unlawful aid and comfort to agents of Russia.

Donald J. Trump, personally and through his close subordinates and agents, has committed treason by receiving covert and unlawful aid and comfort from agents of Russia.

ARTICLE 2

Subsequent thereto, Donald J. Trump, using the powers of his high office, has engaged personally and through his close subordinates and agents, in a course of conduct or plan designed to delay, impede, and obstruct the investigation of his treasonous acts; to cover up, conceal and protect his treasonous acts and the acts of his close subordinates and agents; and to conceal the existence and scope of his other covert and unlawful activities.

ARTICLE 3

The means being used to implement Donald J. Trump’s treason include one or more of the following:

1 making false or misleading statements to lawfully authorized investigative officers and employees of the United States;

2 withholding relevant and material evidence or information from lawfully authorized investigative officers and employees of the United States;

3 approving, condoning, acquiescing in, and counseling witnesses with respect to the giving of false or misleading statements to lawfully authorized investigative officers and employees of the United States and false or misleading testimony in duly instituted judicial and congressional proceedings;

4 interfering or endeavoring to interfere with the conduct of investigations by the Department of Justice of the United States, the Federal Bureau of Investigation of the United States, the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States, the National Security Council of the United States, the Department of Homeland Security of the United States, and Congressional Committees of the United States;

5 approving, condoning, and acquiescing in, the surreptitious payment of substantial sums of money for the purpose of obtaining the silence or influencing the testimony of witnesses, potential witnesses or individuals who participated in such traitorous acts;

6 making or causing to be made false or misleading public statements for the purpose of deceiving the people of the United States into believing that he had no involvement in such traitorous acts: or

7 endeavoring to cause prospective defendants, or individuals duly tried and convicted, to expect favored treatment and consideration in return for their silence or false testimony, or rewarding individuals for their silence or false testimony.

In all of this, Donald J. Trump has acted in a manner contrary to his trust as President and subversive of constitutional government, to the great prejudice of the cause of law and justice and to the manifest injury of the people of the United States.

Wherefore, Donald J. Trump, by his conduct, warrants impeachment and trial, and removal from office.

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She Hates Numbers

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Heavenly Dances, Heavenly Intimacies, a short story

illustration heavenly dances heavenly intimacies

Heavenly Dances, Heavenly Intimacies, a short story

“Isn’t there any heaven where old beautiful dances, old beautiful intimacies prolong themselves?”

Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier

How can I be “dead” to any of the men I once loved?  They are not “dead” to me.  Not even H.  How can I be “dead” to H.?  They — even H. — are each as alive as when I was with them; as alive as the first time they touched me, whether tentatively or with confidence; whether softly or roughly; whether with passion or mere lust.  It is shocking and appalling how H. lurched so radically to the right after 9/11.  He began that journey to the Tea-Party-Mad-Hatter-Neocon-Bill-Buckley-Wall-Street-Apologist-Fringe-Brainless-Faux-News-Right when Ronald Reagan was shot; I was with him the very night it happened.  We had a short affair, right then, because we started thinking the end of the world had arrived and we decided, like the crazy college students we were, to get married to celebrate our courage in the face of chaos!  I realized very early on (but still way too late!) I was embarrassed to be seen in public with him.  Did you ever start seeing, and marry someone whom you later realized you were embarrassed to be seen with?  Perhaps the person in question was “dorky,” “geeky,” dressed “badly,” or had questionable “taste.”  H. readily admits he was a “dork” in high school.  He was on the debate team; need I say more?  When you can’t bear to be seen in your lover’s/spouse’s/significant other’s/partner’s company, things usually don’t work out.

Still, I put in ten dutiful years, trying to make amends for my mistake in marrying H.  The second he started making the big bucks, he dumped me.  He left me for my best friend!  I guess I deserved it, not taking control of my own life & filing for divorce two weeks after we married.  And I guess I deserved how my ex-best-friend S. ruined me, as she subsequently did.  She was in charge of the whole group we had socialized with:  dictating how everyone in our “circle” should think, speak, act, or react.  H. was dead wrong about most everything, but, to his credit, he was dead right about her.  At the time I thought him merely woman-hating, but I see now, even though he did hate women, there was something more than simply being a “woman” he hated about her.  He was covering up the fact he loved her by pretending to hate her.  Now, I have no desire to see her, not ever again.  She is definitely “dead” to me.  Yes, I understand intellectually, a living death (call it shunning) can happen to anyone.

The upshot of all this boring history?  I’ve been waiting for something a long time.  I can’t blame anyone but myself for my unhappiness, not anymore.  There is something dispirited inside me, something empty, drained, and beaten — something sick, something tired, something that has surrendered.  I gave up, when?  When my first ex-husband arbitrarily said no to children, breaking his solemn vow.  When I realized I couldn’t find happiness outside myself — not with an old love, not with a new love, not with any of my subsequent husbands, my friends, my eventual children, or my family.  Yes, to casual acquaintances and virtual strangers I am “happy, happier than I’ve ever been.”  And it’s true!  I’ve never been this happy, this contented, in my life.  Yes, there are still problems.  My oldest son is still half the world away, fighting an endless war on behalf of my “country.”  My youngest son still has an ignorant, racist, rabidly conservative father.  I am getting old.  My face is melting.  My neck is turning into a wattle.  I am drooping.

Still, I cannot imagine any of them, the men I have loved or made love to, being dead to me the way my former best friend, S., is dead to me.  Yet that is how they must feel about me, the way I feel about her.  Wanting her removed from my memories.  Wanting never to have met her.  Not missing anything about her.  She wants to see me, I heard from a mutual friend I still speak to.  I don’t want to see her, or even see the mutual friend.  I don’t even want to get as close as that!  Because of reasons.  Top secret, NSA, DOD, CIA, FBI, SEC, IRS, FDLE, GPD, ACSO reasons!  No further comment!

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Leslie Gaines, purported “filmmaker”

leslie the asshole

Leslie Gaines is a criminal, a con man and an artistic failure.  He stole business assets from me personally, to the tune of six figures.  Yes:  $$$,$$$  He has left a bloody trail of many other duped & broken former “partners” behind him.  I pity anyone who trusts him with their priceless time, credit rating, camera equipment, or vehicles.  In addition to those crimes, he invaded my home and physically assaulted me.  He is currently hiding out in Montana, plotting his next big con job.  Warning:  do not ever, under any circumstances, believe one word this man utters.

He is a pathological liar.  He never speaks truth.  He sheds crocodile tears.  He is a bad actor.  He is a bad “filmmaker.”  He is a hypocrite, a racist, and a descendant of General Gaines, one of the foremost murderers of native Americans in this country’s history.  He, himself, is quite literally cursed by the Seminole and the Miccosuccee tribes — they have judgments against him for millions:  $,$$$,$$$, and he will never be able to own property in his own name as long as he lives. I believe he is suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s, or some other form of dementia.  Or, just as likely, he has just rotted his brain with too much drinking & drugging.

He abuses women, uses & emotionally abuses everyone he meets, and continues to steal & abuse me emotionally by using my deceased brother’s name as a credit on his illegally obtained footage!  I pray that he doesn’t harm anyone else.  Look at his face and run from it, should you see him.  Forewarned is forearmed.  I owe the world this warning, both as a human being and a fourth generation attorney.

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Our Villain, a short story

illustration our villain

Our Villain

Back when these events transpired, we consisted of three lawyers representing two plaintiffs against one defendant.  We were, then as now, made up of two males and a female, the female of medium height, one male taller than average, one male shorter.  Both the male lawyers were older than the female lawyer by in one case, seven, and in the other case, ten years.  Only one of us, however, had blue eyes.  And only one of us was in love with the other two simultaneously, to her great consternation and guilt, as all three of us were married, but none to the other.  Hence, once possible source of difficulty for her.

The case was ponderous and slow-moving though not terribly complicated, legally speaking.  The theory of liability was straightforward; even a child could comprehend it, and in actuality two children already had.  No, in our case it was not the law that was causing our increasingly troubling reliance on several rounds of stiff drinks in the early evening and several rounds of antacids later on.  It was rather, the facts.  In the end, had any one of us been asked if we felt we had done the right thing, the answer would have been not yes, but a glare of outrage that the question had even been asked, and perhaps a violent cuff or two to the side of the questioner’s head.  On our way this morning to the small, cold and windowless room we now sat in, we had driven together, singing long-memorized childhood standards to relieve the tension we all felt.  We had, by way of example, upon arrival at the designated meeting place, arm in arm, skipped across the underground parking lot while whistling “We’re Off to See the Wizard.”

Thus fortified by silly notions of camaraderie and invincibility, we sat across from the villain, whom we only in public termed “the defendant.”  We were there on that heartbreakingly beautiful late spring morning — the kind of morning when even had we been working on a less distasteful set of facts, we would rather have been anywhere else — to ask him questions about what he’d done to two little girls, our clients, aged 9 and 12 when he started, aged 11 and 14 now.  The natural beauty outside — redbuds and Japanese magnolias, falling camellias — was to us that morning like a knife in the chest.  We had just the night before come back from a visit to the girls’ current home, a grim apartment in Little Havana, furnished with a couch and chairs upholstered in bright gold plastic, molded to resemble brocade and velvet.  The girls’ mother sat out in the kitchen while we talked to them, then the girls went to the bedroom they shared with their mother while we talked to her.  Our talk was intended to help them feel that what they were going through now, the legal system, was not as bad as what the villain had taken them through.  But the villain’s lawyers, also three in number, were trying to convince both girls and their mother that what the villain had taken them through was, in fact, the best of all possible worlds, and that the uncertain future they now faced was simply a result of their own stupidity and greed.

After the psychic shoring-up session at our clients’ sad, ill-lit lodgings, we had departed hastily for the bar at our hotel.  One of us, as it turned out, was unable to handle her drink as well as the other two — though all three of us drank more than the AMA preaches, though not, perhaps, more than the AMA actually practices when faced with the sort of evening we had just experienced and were trying to bury in the way a dog buries a nasty, rotting piece of meat that said dog knows will be needed the following day for its very sustenance.  Indeed, one of us was so incompetent at the art of self-medication by drinking she made inappropriate remarks to the other two of us, remarks involving her shameful, growing adulterous sentiments toward the other two, and though the eyes of the second two softened and grew misty and mutually receptive to the first’s silly, childish emotional exuberance — and one laid a tender hand on her wrist while the other stroked her cheek — they nonetheless raised to her as gently as they could the issue of how negatively our spouses might react to such sentiments, fully realized in all their permutations.  Besides, the possible effects on our case loomed, immeasurable and frightening.

From the beginning we’d agreed that if we’d been casting directors for a Hollywood movie, we couldn’t have found a better physical type to play our villain.  He was tall, well over 6 feet, and hulking, with a belly that strained the buttons on his shirt and spilled over the waist of his trousers.  His skin was pale and so were his eyes, a faint blue behind thick lenses.  Even his hair helped us — thinning, the color of burnt toast, combed greasily back off his forehead and swirled neatly behind his ears, but curled up in the back as if it couldn’t bear to be a part of him and would have jumped off at the first chance.

He’d met the girls’ mother when she was on the verge of becoming homeless.  He discovered later, to his satisfaction, that she was always perched on that edge, that he could forever hold her in his hand as long as that hand was gentle and lined with cash.  He moved them into his fine house, a low-slung, four-bedroom ranch in the suburbs of Miami.  His family home was far, far north, and he’d long ago fled the harsh winters for our near-tropical climate.  The brief, almost nonexistent winters we enjoyed led to the closets of young girls such as he favored being full of short-shorts and tank tops, and in, say, February, when his mother and his brother and sister (his father was dead) shivered inside their wools and furs, and drove haltingly along just-plowed, still-icy roads, he could climb into his Corvette convertible, top down, his thin, lank hair fluttering gaily as he drove, usually humming, to find his favorite sights at any city park.  For free.  He could look as long as he liked, newspaper over his lap, and no one had any idea what he was really thinking.

As lawyers, we thought we were familiar with how most people, even people not as far off the beaten path of normal human desire as our villain, are nonetheless filled with bizarre, inappropriate, even disgusting impulses.  We believed we understood how everyone is, underneath the legally complex bounds of civilized adulthood, in many respects still the naked, screaming, bloody baby ejected suddenly and not altogether politely from mama’s throbbing womb.  As lawyers, we possessed staid, naïve notions that because we had already experienced myriad cool, appraising looks in boardrooms and courtrooms, (in combination with startling internal questions of our own, seemingly unrelated, sudden pulsing engorgement), nothing could truly touch us, make us feel, by mere legal contact, soiled.  How wrong we were.

The day he met our girls and their mother, he’d spent the afternoon pursuing one of his favorite hobbies.  Top down, cruising in his car, trolling for the bright yellow buses that never failed to stir his loins.  He’d follow behind one, fly unzipped, smiling at the young faces gesturing frantically to him behind the glass windows marked “Emergency Exit.”  The kids loved his car.  He loved the kids, and that was what nobody else seemed to understand.  He loved them more than anything.  Their clear eyes and bright, uncomplicated peals of laughter were what drew him to wake up each morning, were what made life not a chore but a gift from God.

The day we sat across from the villain, what appeared to offend him most was the nervous gaze of the court reporter.  Maybe dressing the way he always did, in an open-throated shirt, his neck, wrists and fingers hung with heavy, 18-carat gold ornaments, had been a mistake in judgment.  He met our eyes shyly — trying to use his best manners.  Had he used that shy, hesitant gaze the first time he approached our girls?  Had he, by reason of blushes and stutters, brought out their still-developing maternal instincts?  Had they seen him as nothing more than a big, rubbery doll of a man?  Had he clasped his wrists the way he hung on to himself now?  For dear life?  What part of his life was dearest at this moment?

We, in our turn, met his eyes with blankness, hiding our feelings, our ultimate goal — we wanted to inspire in him only trust.  We were, for the next few hours, dedicated to convincing him we had no malice toward him, no, simply the same heartfelt weight of concern for his girls — our girls now — that he’d always maintained.  We differed only in how we wished him to express his deepest feelings toward his beloveds.  We simply wanted to redirect his fingers from the clasp of his own member to the clasp of an ink pen.  All he had to do, to satisfy us, was sign a check representing a sum equivalent to all he now possessed.  It was no more or less than the great love he’d always felt for them, for all of them, all the dear children who’d brought such golden light into his otherwise empty days.  He was worth millions.

Our girls had been shocked when he first made his desires known to them.  Shocked not in the sense one is shocked by a car accident, but shocked in the way one is shocked the first time it is made plain that one will be required to someday provide food, clothing and shelter for oneself.  His desires for them quickly brought material comfort to their mother and to them.  At first, the knowledge of their importance to him brought them a sort of heady pride, a child’s pride at having found in the soil a shiny gold coin.  For a while, there was no great weariness at his requests.  For a while, our girls still felt it was worthwhile to each day shower, brush their teeth, and comb their hair.  It was, at its best, a game, a stage play, a dream.  They would feel something click over in their heads, and suddenly the hands on their bodies would be outside the real.  What happened against the skin of their bodies in the villain’s king-sized bed atop his black sheets happened in another country; a parallel universe.

We knew their seduction had been a gradual procession from blushes, hesitations and startlement to coy fumblings undertaken first under cover of a cheerily false, overgrown childish abandon, then beneath a camouflage of compliments and toys, shopping expeditions to the nearest air-conditioned mall wherein nothing was refused, nothing.  If our villain refused them nothing, how weakened became their own ability to refuse!  He had become quite skilled at fulfilling the ache that seemed to start in his toes and rise up to his scalp.  His entire body loved those girls — his kisses covered them like a fine mist of semi-tropical rain.

When the teachers at school sent home notes advising the girls’ mother to assist in ensuring their personal hygiene, how delighted he was to purchase fine soaps and bathing salts, sponges and silken wash mitts.  Neither he nor their mother, busy in front of her TV, saw the circles under the girls’ eyes, the listlessness which every day crept deeper into their skins, as symptomatic of anything other than transient sleep deprivation or chronic growing pains.  The girls were, despite the recent flimsiness of their appetites, growing like kudzu vines after a good hard rain.  All was well in the quiet house.

The villain and our girls’ mother were, as a result, quite alarmed when the child welfare worker showed up one afternoon unannounced. Our villain was napping in his dark, cool cave of a bedroom, covered only from the knees down by the sheet which yet retained a certain pleasant odor and stiffness from the previous night’s adventure.  Mother was engrossed in a particularly compelling news broadcast of the Pope’s South American tour when the doorbell rang.  She was stout and somewhat put out at having to leave her seat as she huffed her way to the door.  Those Jehovah’s Witnesses could be such an annoyance.

The social worker stood on the doorstep in the bright afternoon sunlight, mopping her forehead with her bare hand, and then drying her hand on the side of her slacks.  As soon as the girls’ mother answered the door, the social worker felt something hard to describe, something which she would, with great reluctance when pressed later by the district attorney, label nausea.  She felt nausea as she stood looking at the girls’ overweight, unkempt mother, but she could not be sure if it was due to the heat, the greasy chicken sandwich she’d wolfed on her way to this visit, or the physical presence of the mother herself, a short, stocky, large-breasted, flat-footed creature with no discernible joie de vivre.

Now, in our tiny deposition room, our villain began to perspire as we questioned him.  He remained of good cheer, evidenced by an easy, toothy smile and an absence of muscle tremors.  We asked many things which in ordinary onlookers might have produced discomfort.  We asked hundreds of detailed questions involving the breasts, buttocks, mouths, hands and genitals of both the villain and our girls.  Every possible mathematical combination of the body parts mentioned had to be imagined, catalogued, and inquired into.

But our villain’s lawyers, though he had already been criminally prosecuted and sentenced under a plea-bargain, instructed him after the very first question to invoke his rights against self-incrimination under the Fifth Amendment, using those simple, nearly poetic words we had studied in school and grown to love — but would never love again — hiding behind those words as behind a hideous, absolute shield.  His lawyers stared at the table, unable to meet our eyes.  Surely their job was worse than ours, at that moment.  Because the villain wanted so badly to tell us, he wanted to explain that he had never, ever done anything to harm those beautiful children.  He only wanted to tell us how much he had, and would always, love them.  His body trembled as his lawyers touched his arms to keep him in his seat.  Our bodies trembled as we continued our litany of questions, preserving for the record his only defense.

We couldn’t, as we had imagined, pierce the villain upon our lance of questions like knights on chargers, and thus protect our girls from exposure to cross-examinations by his white-glove law firm’s most skillful roster of evil, carrion-eating dragons.  We could not keep him — by virtue of the Constitution — from further harming the children we sought only to recompense for the harm he’d already inflicted.  We might now be forced, if he would not voluntarily settle the case, to put his victims upon the witness stand only to be reminded in excruciating detail once more of the very things we wanted them most to forget.  What we didn’t know, at that moment, was he would the following week agree to settle the case, not, unfortunately, for every cent he possessed, but for enough of his funds to cut short his career as lethal sugar-daddy.  What we heard, we heard only from our girls.  In private.

Please, he had said, the first time, when he made “love” to them both within a half-hour.  Please.  His words flayed the girls open like a rawhide bullwhip across their chests.  I need to, he had said, curled up on the bed next to them like a baby.  His hands reached, grasped, fumbled, and then grasped again.  He unbuttoned their shirts, unzipped their pants.  The sensation was at once terrifying, sickening and pleasurable.  Our girls turned their eyes away, looking out the windows, down the hall.  Their dread and revulsion butted up against his sickness, his addiction.  He left the door open, the curtains flung wide.  It was a beautiful spring day outdoors that day — full-blown white camellias fell off their perches with heavy, helpless plops at short intervals just on the other side of the window-screen next to the bed.  The flowers had to bloom, had to engorge each formerly folded petal, to force themselves open toward the light, the slow-moving caressing wind.  The girls tried to see him as a bee forcing its way into a closed flower, a male bee burdened by his own desire, his own weakness, and his own ignorance.

After the villain’s deposition was over that day, he somehow made it to the door before any of us did.  He stood in the doorway waiting, his hand out, as if a greeter in a department store.  His palm was soft-looking, glistening with perspiration and as we glanced at it we saw not a hand, but a weapon carrying the stain of everything we already knew he’d done with it.  Ladies first, the villain said with a smile.  Then, while that unfortunate member of our trio shook hands with the villain, the other two slipped by him with relief and gratitude toward the first.  His flesh turned out to be hotly moist, unpleasantly springy, and what we found out later, as the three of us walked arm in arm to the bar on the corner — the two who hadn’t shaken the villain’s hand supporting the weight of the one in the middle who had — it seemed his touch (no matter how much scrubbing with soap and water so hot it seared the flesh had taken place immediately afterward in the washroom of the courthouse) his touch had made all of us feel irrevocably soiled.  Like we’d shaken hands with the Devil.

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i wrote nancy pelosi the correct answer to the question about abortion

illustration nancy pelosiillustration kermit gosnell

Yet more hoopla (from the French, houp-là, interjection, first known use: 1877) for the radical, extremist right to mentally masturbate itself with (an activity also in the “news” the same extremists have so much fun ejaculating all over the rest of us normals): a reporter asked Nancy Pelosi, “What is the moral difference between what Dr. Gosnell did to a baby born alive at 23 weeks and aborting her moments before birth?”

Nancy Pelosi answered: “You obviously have an agenda. You’re not interested in having an answer.”

This was her error, and unfortunately has added even more fuel to a fire that should never have started to begin with. We reasonable, normal people need to start taking every opportunity to throw the water of common sense and reason over this extremist conflagration. I believe she should have answered the question this way: “Legal abortion in this country is by definition a medical procedure; a standardized series of actions, carefully dictated by medical textbooks and undertaken in a sterile environment, resulting in the termination of a woman’s unwanted pregnancy. You may not like it, you may not approve of it, but the practice of medicine is solely between a doctor and a patient and that relationship is privileged under every legal tradition currently existing in the United States of America; outsiders to that doctor/patient relationship need not apply for admission; it will never be granted. What criminal Defendant Gosnell did is, by stark and obvious contrast, not a medical procedure in any way, shape or form; rather, it is a random, bizarre, and dangerous series of actions which are not found in any medical text ever written in the history of the medical profession. If you are too uneducated or too biased to be able to understand the vast gulf between safe, legal, medical abortion and Gosnell’s illegal, nonmedical, chaotic actions, you need to go back to school and retake all the journalism courses you obviously slept through; so for the sake of your beloved country, stop engaging in ridiculous sensationalism simply for the sake of gaining publicity, get off the merry-go-round of insanity you have been placed upon by the radical, extreme right, and please stop soiling the reputation of honest journalism, one of the noblest professions ever invented.”

“He started out as a good practice doctor but eventually just became a money-generating machine,” [one of the citizens sitting on Gosnell’s trial jury] said. Money is usually at the root of most illegal conduct. Money or mental illness, or both.

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