Flynn White Quotes

And the memory of stardust and open fields, of bleachers and black-and-white cats and apples in the woods, of tally marks and music, of running and burning, and the desperate, hopeless desire to feel human.

That’s the way plants down here work: The Mexicans get the shittiest, most dangerous jobs, and the whites still complain.

The soul is the form of the body, but not as the shape of a statue is formatio et terminatio materiae, for form does not exist apart from material. There is no whiteness without a white object. But the soul is not a form in this simple sense, and in particular, is not the shape of the material it informs. Therefore, the shape of a being does not affect the being's soul, for then something lower would inform something higher, which is impossible.

[excerpt] The usual I say. Essence. Spirit. Medicine. A taste. I say top shelf. Straight up. A shot. A sip. A nip. I say another round. I say brace yourself. Lift a few. Hoist a few. Work the elbow. Bottoms up. Belly up. Set ‘em up. What’ll it be. Name your poison. I say same again. I say all around. I say my good man. I say my drinking buddy. I say git that in ya. Then a quick one. Then a nightcap. Then throw one back. Then knock one down. Fast & furious I say. Could savage a drink I say. Chug. Chug-a-lug. Gulp. Sauce. Mother’s milk. Everclear. Moonshine. White lightning. Firewater. Hootch. Relief. Now you’re talking I say. Live a little I say. Drain it I say. Kill it I say. Feeling it I say. Wobbly. Breakfast of champions I say. I say candy is dandy but liquor is quicker. I say Houston, we have a drinking problem. I say the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems. I say god only knows what I’d be without you. I say thirsty. I say parched. I say wet my whistle. Dying of thirst. Lap it up. Hook me up. Watering hole. Knock a few back. Pound a few down. My office. Out with the boys I say. Unwind I say. Nurse one I say. Apply myself I say. Toasted. Glow. A cold one a tall one a frosty I say. One for the road I say. Two-fisted I say. Never trust a man who doesn’t drink I say. Drink any man under the table I say. Then a binge then a spree then a jag then a bout. Coming home on all fours. Could use a drink I say. A shot of confidence I say. Steady my nerves I say. Drown my sorrows. I say kill for a drink. I say keep ‘em comin’. I say a stiff one. Drink deep drink hard hit the bottle. Two sheets to the wind then. Knackered then. Under the influence then. Half in the bag then. Out of my skull I say. Liquored up. Rip-roaring. Slammed. Fucking jacked. The booze talking. The room spinning. Feeling no pain. Buzzed. Giddy. Silly. Impaired. Intoxicated. Stewed. Juiced. Plotzed. Inebriated. Laminated. Swimming. Elated. Exalted. Debauched. Rock on. Drunk on. Bring it on. Pissed. Then bleary. Then bloodshot. Glassy-eyed. Red-nosed. Dizzy then. Groggy. On a bender I say. On a spree. I say off the wagon. I say on a slip. I say the drink. I say the bottle. I say drinkie-poo. A drink a drunk a drunkard. Swill. Swig. Shitfaced. Fucked up. Stupefied. Incapacitated. Raging. Seeing double. Shitty. Take the edge off I say. That’s better I say. Loaded I say. Wasted. Off my ass. Befuddled. Reeling. Tanked. Punch-drunk. Mean drunk. Maintenance drunk. Sloppy drunk happy drunk weepy drunk blind drunk dead drunk. Serious drinker. Hard drinker. Lush. Drink like a fish. Boozer. Booze hound. Alkie. Sponge. Then muddled. Then woozy. Then clouded. What day is it? Do you know me? Have you seen me? When did I start? Did I ever stop? Slurring. Reeling. Staggering. Overserved they say. Drunk as a skunk they say. Falling down drunk. Crawling down drunk. Drunk & disorderly. I say high tolerance. I say high capacity. They say protective custody. Blitzed. Shattered. Zonked. Annihilated. Blotto. Smashed. Soaked. Screwed. Pickled. Bombed. Stiff. Frazzled. Blasted. Plastered. Hammered. Tore up. Ripped up. Destroyed. Whittled. Plowed. Overcome. Overtaken. Comatose. Dead to the world. The old K.O. The horrors I say. The heebie-jeebies I say. The beast I say. The dt’s. B’jesus & pink elephants. A mindbender. Hittin’ it kinda hard they say. Go easy they say. Last call they say. Quitting time they say. They say shut off. They say dry out. Pass out. Lights out. Blackout. The bottom. The walking wounded. Cross-eyed & painless. Gone to the world. Gone. Gonzo. Wrecked. Sleep it off. Wake up on the floor. End up in the gutter. Off the stuff. Dry. Dry heaves. Gag. White knuckle. Lightweight I say. Hair of the dog I say. Eye-opener I say. A drop I say. A slug. A taste. A swallow. Down the hatch I say. I wouldn’t say no I say. I say whatever he’s having. I say next one’s on me. I say bottoms up. Put it on my tab. I say one more. I say same again

They're trying to breed a nation of techno-peasants. Educated just enough to keep things going, but not enough to ask tough questions. They encourage any meme that downplays thoughtful analysis or encourages docility or self indulgence or uniformity. In what other society do people use "smart" and "wise" as insults? We tell people "don't get smart." Those who try, those who really like to learn, we call "nerds." Look at television or the press or the trivia that passes for political debate. When a candidate DOES try to talk about the issues, the newspapers talk about his sex life. Look at Saturday morning cartoon shows. Peasants, whether they're tilling fields or stuffing circuit boards, are easier to manipulate. Don't question; just believe. Turn off your computer and Trust the Force. Or turn your computer on and treat it like the Oracle of Delphi. That's right. They've made education superficial and specialized. Science classes for art majors? Forget it! And how many business or engineering students get a really good grounding in the humanities? When did universities become little more than white collar vocational schools?

He’s an eternal child. Sees the world like it should be in a fairy tale, minus the evil characters. Everything is bright and beautiful and everyone is his friend.” Micky hesitated. “It’s a real shame that life isn’t like that. Because a world full of Flynns would be the one I wanna live in.

The Mexicans get the shittiest, most dangerous jobs, and the whites still complain.

Only two men were needed to carry the shiny white coffin. Any more and they would have been bumping into each other.

Watching the river flow over fish-white feet, so intently, utterly self-possessed even as a child.

The Woman in White.

Flash of Marian, now bones in a coffin, a white satin ribbon wrapped around dried blonde curls, like some bouquet gone stale.

The point could hardly have been clearer: if the president was pressuring the director because he feared that an investigation of Michael Flynn would damage him, then this was an obstruction of justice.

She began walking away from me, down the hallway—luminous white living rooms and sitting rooms and reading rooms blooming out on all sides—and I studied her. It was the first time we’d seen each other in almost a year. My hair was a different color—brown from red—but she didn’t seem to notice. She looked exactly the same, though, not much older than I am now, although she’s in her late forties. Glowing pale skin,

Now the three were in a tiny magical clearing in the forest: lime-green moss and tiny, sweet-scented flowers not seen elsewhere in the dark woods grew in profusion. In the middle of it a crystal-clear spring burbled whose waters were supposed to have healing properties. No one said it aloud, but it was very clear this was exactly the sort of place the king-- or queen-- of the forest would live: a golden-antlered stag, a snow-white hart, or...

Bannon’s presence on the council was just as much driven by the need to babysit the impetuous Flynn, prone to antagonizing almost everyone else in the national security community. (Flynn was “a colonel in a general’s uniform,

This place is so white, it’s disturbing,” said Amy, who, back in the melting pot of Manhattan, counted a single African-American among her friends. I accused her of craving ethnic window dressing, minorities as backdrops. It did not go well.)

(“This place is so white, it’s disturbing,” said Amy, who, back in the melting pot of Manhattan, counted a single African-American among her friends. I accused her of craving ethnic window dressing, minorities as backdrops. It did not go well.)

His nametag said Jose. I tried to see if he was missing any fingers. Mexicans don’t get cushy box jobs unless they’re owed. That’s the way plants down here work: The Mexicans get the shittiest, most dangerous jobs, and the whites still complain.

The major problem might be allegations of obstructing justice by urging Comey to drop the Flynn investigation, and then firing Comey. But Dowd believed that the president’s Article II constitutional authority clearly encompassed firing an FBI director.

Keller, who devoted much of her later life to raising funds for the American Foundation for the Blind, never wavered in her belief that our society needed radical change. Having herself fought so hard to speak, she helped found the American Civil Liberties Union to fight for the free speech of others. She sent $100 to the NAACP with a letter of support that appeared in its magazine The Crisis—a radical act for a white person from Alabama in the 1920s. She supported Eugene V. Debs, the Socialist candidate, in each of his campaigns for the presidency. She composed essays on the women’s movement, on politics, on economics. Near the end of her life, she wrote to Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, leader of the American Communist Party, who was then languishing in jail, a victim of the McCarthy era: “Loving birthday greetings, dear Elizabeth Flynn! May the sense of serving mankind bring strength and peace into your brave heart!

Now directly above her, transiting the meridian, was the new crescent moon. No longer a chalky white, it was as silver as a piece of polished jewelry, somehow shining and sparkling despite the fact that it should have been nearly invisible that close to the sun, traveling through his bright day. "Oh, how pret---" Rapunzel started to say, but then she was distracted because her hair began to glow. Just like when she killed the chickens-- but more. Brilliantly, with the white light of the diamonds of her (Flynn's) crown, with the whiteness she imagined the foam of a midnight sea would look like. She picked up a hank of hair and let it hang from her hands; it was like holding molten silver chains or all the distant rivers seen from her tower, gathered up together by some unimaginable fairy-tale giant.

What should I do?” Patty put her head between her knees. She felt laughter in her stomach, it was all so ludicrous. I wonder if I’m having a breakdown, she thought. Maybe I could have a breakdown and then I won’t have to talk to anyone. A safe white room, and Patty being ushered like a child from breakfast to lunch to dinner, maneuvered by people with gentle whispers, Patty shuffling like someone who’s dying.

Emptying Town" I want to erase your footprints from my walls. Each pillow is thick with your reasons. Omens fill the sidewalk below my window: a woman in a party hat, clinging to a tin-foil balloon. Shadows creep slowly across the tar, someone yells, "Stop!" and I close my eyes. I can't watch as this town slowly empties, leaving me strung between bon-voyages, like so many clothes on a line, the white handkerchief stuck in my throat. You know the way Jesus rips open his shirt to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny, the way he points to it. I'm afraid the way I'll miss you will be this obvious. I have a friend who everyone warns me is dangerous, he hides bloody images of Jesus around my house, for me to find when I come home; Jesus behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked into the mirror. He wants to save me but we disagree from what. My version of hell is someone ripping open his shirt and saying, Look what I did for you.

Did you say this is a chicken sandwich?” “Chicken salad.” “Well, the chicken escaped with his life in the making of this sandwich. Very little indeed was taken off his hide. What are these green lumps in it?” “Celery.” “That’s the salad part, is it? All held together by a white paste it looks somebody has already masticated.” “That’s mayonnaise, Inspector.” “The great thing about American prepared food is how completely it’s prepared. It’s even pre-chewed.” Grover said, “You don’t like your sandwich?” “Well, there are three of us famous detectives standing over it, and any one of us would be hard-pressed to discover the chicken in it.

Moths, large and white and fluttering in a manner just a little too bat-like, came out of hiding to revel in this unexpected dismissal of day. So too did fireflies: Rapunzel squealed in delight when, like tiny candles, they twinkled in slow, unhurried loops around grass. "Is this your mother's magic?" she shrieked, clawing at Gina's arm. " ARE THOSE FAIRIES ?" "No, those are lightning bugs, Princess," Flynn said with a sigh. "In-sects. Whose butts glow." "Right. I'm an idiot," Rapunzel said, trying to get one to land on her. "Because in real life, fairies aren't real but witches are." "Touché," he said good-naturedly, with a bow. Rapunzel felt her chest flutter.

He counseled vigilance, “because the possibility of abuse by government officials always exists. The issue is not going to be that there are new tools available; the issue is making sure that the incoming administration, like my administration, takes the constraints on how we deal with U.S. citizens and persons seriously.” This answer did not fill me with confidence. The next day, President-Elect Trump offered Lieutenant General Michael Flynn the post of national security adviser and picked Senator Jeff Sessions of Alabama as his nominee for attorney general. Last February, Flynn tweeted, “Fear of Muslims is RATIONAL” and linked to a YouTube video that declared followers of Islam want “80 percent of humanity enslaved or exterminated.” Sessions had once been accused of calling a black lawyer “boy,” claiming that a white lawyer who represented black clients was a disgrace to his race, and joking that he thought the Ku Klux Klan “was okay until I found out they smoked pot.” I felt then that I knew what was coming

Suggested Reading Atkinson, Kate. Behind the Scenes at the Museum; Binchy, Maeve. Tara Road, The Copper Beech, and Evening Class; Bloom, Amy. Come to Me; Edwards, Kim. The Memory Keeper’s Daughter; Ferris, Joshua. The Unnamed; Flynn, Gillian. Gone Girl; Foer, Jonathan Safran. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close; Franzen, Jonathan. The Corrections; Ganesan, Indira. Inheritance; Hanilton, Jane. Disobedience; Jonasson, Jonas. The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared; Joyce, Rachel. The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry; Kidd, Sue Monk. The Secret Life of Bees; Mapson, Jo-Ann, The Owl & Moon Cafe; McEwan, Ian. Atonement; Miller, Arthur. All My Sons; Morrison, Toni. Love; O’Neill, Eugene. Long Day’s Journey into Night; Pekkanen, Sarah. The Opposite of Me; Porter, Andrew. In Between Days; Quindlen, Anna. Blessings and One True Thing; Rosenfeld, Lucinda. The Pretty One; Sittenfeld, Curtis. Sisterland; Smith, Ali. There But For The; Tan, Amy. The Joy Luck Club; Tyler, Anne. Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant; White, Karen. The Time Between; Williams, Tennessee. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof; Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway; Yates, Richard. The Easter Parade.

Going forward, if she is to continue, things need to change.” “Oh, and you are speaking for her on this?” Mr. Gui challenged, clearly the royals having quickly gathered or waiting for the results. “No, but as someone who treasures her, I will fucking physically bar her from the next time if that’s what it takes to keep her safe,” he shot back, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “You all slipped extra crystals in over the deal. Professor White collected thousands of extras. Not again. It could have killed her.” “Nonsense, she just has to—” a male argued. “She doesn’t have control,” Darby snarled. “It was an accident. An accident we’ve repeated. She has no idea how she does it. She can’t do it on purpose without those exact circumstances. Most wouldn’t dare have tried again without waiting until reaching fourth year where we get the training but yet, she’s doing it over and over again to help everyone else. No, not if it costs us her.” “Everyone vows now or the deal is off,” Mrs. Courtenay demanded. “We made a deal with her and we risked her. I’m ashamed. We’re better than this. I know we’re desperate and scared, but she is nineteen and alone and we were greedy with her. No more.

house, already worrying my car might get stuck and what would happen if my car got stuck. From behind the storm clouds, the late afternoon sun arrived just in time to blind me as I slammed the door shut and walked toward the house, my gut cold. As I neared the front steps, a big momma possum shot out from under the porch, hissing at me. The thing unnerved me, that pointy white face and those black eyes looking like something that should already be dead. Plus momma possums are nasty bitches. It ran to the bushes, and I kicked the steps to make sure there weren’t more, then climbed them. My lopsided right foot swished around in my boot. A dreamcatcher hung near the door, dangling carved animal teeth and feathers. Just as the rain brings out the concrete smells of the city, it had summoned up the smell of soil and manure here. It smelled like home, which wasn’t right. A long, loose pause followed my knock on the door, and then quiet feet approached. Diondra opened the door, decidedly undead. She didn’t even look that different from the photos I’d seen. She’d ditched the spiral perm, but still wore her hair in loose dark waves, still wore thick black eyeliner that made her eyes look Easter-blue, like pieces of candy.

I glanced up at the trees too. Dead. Every one of them gray and white, needles rusted, leaves shriveled at the tips of branches. All the life sucked out of them. Not just the trees. All the plants, ferns, grasses and brush were shriveled, brown, barren. As if a month of winter had set down right here in my driveway and gone on a killing spree. ... "Love what you've done with the landscape," Cody said. "You could open your own business, you know." ... "The hell you talking about, Miller?" I asked Cody. "Yard care. You're poison and weed whacker all in one. You can call it Death to All Shrubbery.

Finally, there was a new rationale that Flynn should be fired not because of his Russian contacts, but because he had lied about them to the vice president. This was a convenient invention of a chain of command: in fact, Flynn did not report to Vice President Pence, and he was arguably a good deal more powerful than Pence.

Bannon veered from “Mad Dog” Mattis—the retired four-star general whom Trump had nominated as secretary of defense—to a long riff on torture, the surprising liberalism of generals, and the stupidity of the civilian-military bureaucracy. Then it was on to the looming appointment of Michael Flynn—a favorite Trump general who’d been the opening act at many Trump rallies—as the National Security Advisor. “He’s fine. He’s not Jim Mattis and he’s not John Kelly … but he’s fine. He just needs the right staff around him.” Still, Bannon averred: “When you take out all the never-Trump guys who signed all those letters and all the neocons who got us in all these wars … it’s not a deep bench.

represent you.” “I understand your frustration,” the president said. “You’ve done a great job.” “Mr. President, anything else I can do for you, call me anytime.” “Thank you.” Two minutes later, The New York Times called Dowd, and The Washington Post called. Dowd could see Trump picking up the phone and imagined him calling Maggie Haberman at the Times. “Maggie? Fucking Dowd just resigned.” Trump always liked to be the first to deliver the news. At least Dowd felt he’d gotten ahead of it, had resigned before being fired and getting his ass trashed. Dowd remained convinced that Mueller never had a Russian case or an obstruction case. He was looking for the perjury trap. And in a brutally honest self-evaluation, he believed that Mueller had played him, and the president, for suckers in order to get their cooperation on witnesses and documents. Dowd was disappointed in Mueller, pulling such a sleight of hand. After 47 years, Dowd knew the game, knew prosecutors. They built cases. With all the testimony and documents, Mueller could string together something that would look bad. Maybe they had something new and damning as he now more than half-suspected. Maybe some witness like Flynn had changed his testimony. Things like that happened and that could change the ball game dramatically. Former top aide comes clean, admits to lying, turns on the president. Dowd didn’t think so but he had to worry and consider the possibility. Some things were clear and many were not in such a complex, tangled investigation. There was no perfect X-ray, no tapes, no engineer’s drawing. Dowd believed that the president had not colluded

Flynn told associates that his legal bills were astronomical, as were his son’s, who was also being investigated. A one-count guilty plea for lying seemed the only way out. His statement said, “I accept full responsibility for my actions,” and said he now had an “agreement to cooperate.” He denied that he had committed “treason,” an apparent denial that he had colluded with the Russians.

in the middle. You have to be strong and leave well alone.’ ‘Oh, but suppose it’s a bit too hot and the cakes burn?’ Libby wailed. ‘My mother is a really good cook. It would be awful to give her burnt cake; don’t you think perhaps . . . ?’ ‘Oh, Libby, use your loaf,’ Matthews implored. ‘You can cut burnt off, but there’s nothing you can do if it goes all slimy in the middle and I must say,’ he added, beginning to pile utensils into the yellow bowl, ‘the mixture tastes absolutely delicious. I think raw cake is even nicer than the cooked sort.’ He intercepted Libby’s longing glance towards the oven and chuckled. ‘You start the washing up and I’ll dry, then we’ll put all the things away, and by the time we’ve done that, the cake will very likely be cooked.’ The cake was a great success; Libby lovingly clapped the two halves together with raspberry jam in between, and wrote Welcome, Mummy and Daddy in her very best writing. Icing had not been available since the beginning of the war, but a piece of white card propped up on top of the cake was the next best thing. However, it was only Neil who came striding across the yard halfway through Thursday afternoon. Libby and Matthew had been hanging about the lane all day but as luck would have it had gone back to the house to lay the table for high tea when their visitor arrived. Neil gave a shout, stood his suitcase and bag down and caught Libby as she

the more doubts gathered around Flynn, the more certain the president became that Flynn was his all-important ally.

Clark had no intention of asking the secretary of state why he had called this meeting. The senator knew why. His spies in the White House and over at Foggy Bottom had told him there had been an incident between the president and his top Cabinet member. An incident involving the German ambassador and one that had been extremely embarrassing to Secretary Midleton

THEY HAD GATHERED in Stansfield’s study. It was a quarter past ten in the evening. The director had just returned from the White House and looked tired. At Rapp’s urging, Stansfield had requested extra protection. No one in the CIA’s Office of Security had asked any questions. They didn’t even bat an eye at the request. They were used to such things. Within thirty minutes of Stansfield making the call, a mobile command post and a Chevy Suburban arrived at the director’s house. The mobile command post came with two men to monitor the CP’s communication and surveillance equipment and two more heavily armed men to provide security. The Suburban had brought two German shepherds. The dogs and their machine-gun-toting handlers now patrolled the perimeter

But that wasn’t Hunt’s top concern—not yet. Because between them, in black leggings and a white sweater, light brown hair down around her face … Hunt had no idea who the Fae female was. She was fuming, though, outright seething at the guards, the king, and— “What the fuck?” Flynn exploded. “Sathia?” Declan said, gaping. “It seems,” Morven drawled as the Murder Twins dragged the Fae female forward, their grips white-knuckled on her arms, hard enough to bruise, “that your sister has landed in a heap of trouble, Tristan Flynn.

America is linked to the Isis worship occurring daily at Greenwich England. The White House designed to house the president in Washington D.D. is a copy of the “Queen’s House” in Greenwich England.

Isn't the human body a miracle

If you look in the dictionary under ‘white trash’ there’s a picture of my family.” from BREAKFAST WITH NERUDA, p 37

Do you sleep in your suits, too?" He dragged his gaze from the sweater she held up to her and completed a slow perusal starting at her totally reasonable three-and-a-half-inch metallic silver heels, up her bare calves, across the fitted pear-green pencil skirt, over her winter-white cashmere sweater and stopping briefly on her lips before reaching her eyes. She'd been stark naked, pressed up against a sixteenth-floor window, having one of the best orgasms of her life from a lover-s tongue and hadn't been as turned on as she was at that moment. Fire licked its way across her skin, flicking at all of her sensitive spots until her entire body vibrated. "Do I sleep in my suits? Do you really want to know?" he asked, his voice low with just enough dominating arrogance in it to make her shiver.

Fort Washington, Maryland, in close proximity to the White House.

FBI files show that the father of senior Obama White House adviser Valerie Jarrett was in communication with paid Soviet agent Alfred Stern. Stern was charged with espionage and fled to Prague.

What had also become my routine since I’d been able to do this on my own without White was to pray. To whom?

My name is Flynn,” Flynn cut in, shaking the two men’s hands, and adding his usual infectious grin. “This is my daddy and my brother.” The look of sheer horror bursting on both Larry and Lance’s faces was enough to make Micky cackle, Jason-style.

Hawaiian mango mousse cake with white chocolate drippings.

But he also laid out the protocols for contacts between the White House and the FBI, telling Priebus that going forward, this was the type of question that the Justice Department should only be answering in direct communication with the White House counsel’s office. Comey talking about the contact policy was rich. Just two weeks earlier he had flagrantly disregarded that very policy and sent his FBI agents into the White House to interview Flynn.

On January 24, 2017, Flynn agreed to be interviewed by agents from the FBI.1422 During the interview, which took place at the White House, Flynn falsely stated that he did not ask Kislyak to refrain from escalating the situation in response to the sanctions on Russia imposed by the Obama Administration.1423

The fathers of America had designed their capital city to form a crucifix. The Washington Monument marked the center, with the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial forming the longer center line while the Jefferson Memorial and the White House formed the shorter horizontal

The fathers of America had designed their capital city to form a crucifix. The Washington Monument marked the center, with the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial forming the longer center line while the Jefferson Memorial and the White House formed the shorter horizontal line.

RT had paid him $45,000 for his appearance. His colleagues had warned him that taking Kremlin gold would fatally compromise him, and they also thought that he didn’t care. (Flynn’s twenty-seven-day stint as Trump’s White House national security adviser ended after he lied to the FBI about his conversations with the Russians.) Stein said her campaign paid for her trip to Moscow, but RT paid her back. It ran more than one hundred stories on its American channel supporting her bid for the White House, amplifying her positions—“a vote for Hillary Clinton is a vote for war”—which reliably corresponded with the party line of the Internet Research Agency. “She’s a Russian asset—I mean, totally,” Clinton said three years after the election, an intriguing and incendiary charge.

(Flynn was “a colonel in a general’s uniform,” according to one senior intelligence figure.)

He caught her staring at him and gave her a sly look. "Super impressed with being with a real live criminal, huh?" he asked, smiling with surprisingly nice white teeth. "I'm super impressed with anyone who can fight and knows these woods and the world so well. I guess Gina does, too." "Yes, Gina." He frowned. "She's kind of a weirdo. Nice weirdo, mind you. But very, very odd." A flurry of thoughts winged their way through Rapunzel's head like a confused flock of birds on a late summer test flight. She couldn't separate the different feathered things out. She was also puzzled by the look on Flynn's face: he raised his eyebrows and sort of gazed at her, turning his head so it was a little sideways. He smiled so that his lips stretched wide at the corners but remained partially closed over his teeth. Obviously it was some sort of expression Gothel didn't make but that other people commonly used. So she tried to copy him. "What are you doing?" Flynn asked. "I 'on't ow," Rapunzel responded, keeping her lips in the same half position. "'at are oo oing?" "Okay, you're kind of a weirdo, too. No wonder you two get along so well," Flynn said, shaking his head and dropping the look. "Usually the smolder works on all the ladies." "Oh, you were trying to..." Rapunzel began to giggle. Books #27 and #28 were tales of knights and damsels and adventures--- with more than a touch of romance. Flynn looked offended. "No, please try again!" Rapuunzel begged. "Oh, the mood's gone. Forget it," he said, rolling his eyes. But he smiled-- a real smile this time, a natural one.

An orphan who was kept as a prisoner in a tower with plague signs to keep away?" Gina gently teased. "Seems like a lot of work. Nahh, I bet you're a princess of some sort." Rapunzel stared at her. Then she began guffawing: big, hearty barks of laughter. "She doesn't sound like one," Flynn observed. "She wears a pretty dress like one," Gina pointed out. "Your skin is creamy and perfect," Flynn said. "I mean, um, I guess." "You have a crown," Gina said. "It's not my crown," Rapunzel shouted, still laughing. "I grew up in two rooms... not a giant castle. I don't have any servants, or ladies-in-waiting..." "... or crowns you didn't steal," Flynn added. "... or a white horse, or velvet capes, or a scepter..." "You do have that magnificent hair, though," Flynn pointed out. "I mean, just look at it. It looks fancy and expensive and royal. A normal person, even a lord or lady, couldn't manage locks half that long. Even if it ever came in silver, which seems reeealllly unlikely." He leaned forward to get a better look, and at first Rapunzel did nothing, suddenly aware of his closeness. Whatever he said about her skin, Flynn's was also clear, healthy, and peachy. He had a little bit of hair on his chin (not a full beard like she had seen in pictures), a tiny feathery thing that she kind of wanted to touch.

A policewoman, State, in a white paper hazmat suit, half unzipped, was standing in the middle of Porter, eating a pulled-pork sandwich. Flynne liked her haircut. Wondered if Tommy did. Then she wondered where you got a pulled-pork sandwich, this time of night.

Some people have a great fashion of calling things they do not like yellow. You exclude the yellow man. You fear the yellow peril. I edit a white paper turned out by yellow men, and many white men turn out yellow papers.

The Dean insists that we add creationism and crystal theory and spiritualism to the curriculum." ... "We told the Dean that there was no objective evidence for any of that crap. You know what he said?" ... "No. What?" "He said that the alleged objectivity of materialist science was an invention of heterosexual, white males, so we shouldn't use that as a basis for judgement.

Next Wednesday is part of our routine, another chance to spend lunch hour doing it somewhere else in Kim's immaculate house. Maybe on the white leather couch next time, the one she loves too much to even let me sit on.

Thanksgiving following Powerball held a different vibe than years past. When Gooch arrived with a wine case mixed with whites and reds—part of a massive purchase to restock Pogo’s cellar—Indian Leo was there to greet him. “I see Powerball changes everything! Your first Thanksgiving with us!” “Show me where to set this down, then let’s talk. I have a proposal for you.” Leo waved Gooch to follow. “And giving orders like a rich man!” The two wound up huddled behind a brandy still in a far, dark corner of the barn, invisible to those gathering for the feast. After hitting the bowl Leo had passed to him, Gooch laid out the consortium’s plan, talked about hidden caves and the promise he’d made to his father. Despite a niggling disrespect for Leo, Gooch grudgingly admired the Nindian’s life experience, competence, and wisdom that arose unexpectedly—usually when it was needed most. “I can see the merit in this. I think it’s providence, what you propose. I’ll chant on this tonight and then you’ll have my answer.” The darkness between them was interrupted by the embers glowing from the pull on his pipe. Flynn and The Don watched their friends return from the barn’s shadows, curious as to what the Nindian’s answer would be. Leo’s weed was famous throughout the Rockies—his “Butter Rum Snatch” and “Shush Kush” particularly popular with skiers wanting to find themselves either landing in soft pillows or navigating slopes of cerebral adventure. Getting Leo on board with tending the grow would be a real coup. After swatting away the buzzing fly that was Toothless Don, The Don heaped his plate pheasant, yams, globs of Jello-fruit-Cool-Whip, green bean casserole, then told Flynn that Gooch made the best choice for the operation’s gardener. Pointing forked roasted bird to rafters, he declared, “Leo goes for it. Why wouldn’t he? His autonomy? As a grower? Methinks this shit expands his trip.” “Everything I’ve smoked up here is primo. If that’s the guy growing it? I’m down.” Satisfied with his own plate, Flynn watched Whisper pull Leo aside as Gooch slapped some skin all around then jogged his way to the buffet. Gooch opted for duck, ladling gravy over scooped out mashed potatoes, slopping down collard greens and grabbing two Hawaiian sweet rolls. After pounding a few mouthfuls of food, he looked to his friends for affirmation. “Leo’s weed lasts what? Two months up here? And then, we’re stuck with ditchweed or expensive shit from Paonia or wherever. With our operation, he’ll do what he does and make tons more money. Because he won’t be limited by seasons. And we’ll have kine bud, like, whenever. I think he’s our gardener.” “Where did that come from, squire?” The Don waved his fork, wild-rice stuffing sprayed within the wake of his gestures. “Thinking. Out loud. Wondering if Leo is good for this or if he isn’t going to start doing fucking tours down in the caves.” Pulling meat from his plate and chewing on what he’d snagged, Gooch’s brow drooped to darken his eyes. “You know how he is.” Flynn didn’t know. “How do you mean?” Gooch cast a glance at Flynn’s plate where none of the food touched, meat, starch and veggies divided neatly into discrete nutritional piles. “The man has secrets. I mean, we all have secrets, but he more than most. Which tells me he won’t go blabbing about this, our thing.” “Cosa nostra,” The Don mumbled his Godfather impression. Seated and filling their faces, the three found other table conversations focused entirely on the winners, what they were planning to do with all that money—the winners, everyone meant—and how it was great for the town, especially for the winners. A rubber ball of a topic that kept bouncing back, no matter how hard lottery winners tried to send the trajectory in another direction.