Mike Flynn Turns on Trump, Talks To FBI

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Multiple sources with links to the intelligence and law enforcement communities say that Lt. Gen Mike Flynn has turned on Donald Trump, and has already had at least one lengthy interview with the FBI.

General Flynn has not been offered a deal as of yet, these sources say. They indicate that as of this writing Flynn has not been arrested. He would likely be offered a chance to surrender himself, sources report, when that time comes.

Patribotics hopes to expand reporting and commission other writers. If you would like to donate, there are buttons around the site, or you could make a contribution here.  

Sources with links to the Justice Department indicate that General Flynn has already been indicted. On Twitter, Claude Taylor exclusively reported on May 14th that an indictment against Flynn had been returned by a Grand Jury and that this indictment was sealed. I can…

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Great-Great Grandfather Knows Best

This short is an example of why we call the generation that came
of age in the 1930’s and 1940’s the Greatest Generation.

They were horrified by fascism so they used education to prevent
it from happening in the United States.

Were they a perfect generation without prejudices?

No.

But they never questioned the need for a fully funded system of
public education

Did they make a perfect democracy?

No.

But they understood why we pay taxes and used those taxes to
create the largest Middle Class in human history.

They strove to be the best people they could be and the standard
for the best was the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

They were as vulnerable to corruption as all people are but
because they set high standards for themselves and their
Government the United States became one of the most
respected Nations in the World.

Watch the people of West Berlin cheer John Kennedy on June 26, 1963:

 

 

“All — All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin.
And, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words –Ich bin ein
Berliner.”

John Kennedy, June 26, 1963

A scan of Norman Rockwell's Freedom of Specch
A scan of Norman Rockwell’s Freedom of Speech

Video and Rockwell poster found on the Internet Archives

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A Flight of Ideas: The Food Chain

I am somewhere on the food chain, not high, not low.

I can eat until eaten or watch reruns of Green Acres.

Eva Gabor was more popular than Zsa Zsa but Eva
was never the Queen from Outer Space!

Money does not change poverty when wealth wins out.

Signifiers of class: the rich can choose to skip a bath.

Having a choice is class.

If you must wear a gown, you’re trash.

Eva Gabor as Lisa Douglas on Green Acres
Meme from GIPHY

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

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Strange Dream #09

I am born in the slums of a jungle;

It is hot and I am always thirsty.

I drink water from the fountain

marked Colored.

It has magic that quenches

my thirst.

My neighbors say

the fountain is

diseased

But that was before–

then became now.

At 3 AM savage

sophisticates

jabber and howl.

“Who do you love most,” asks God.

“Jayne Mansfield,” says Max.

“And why is that?” God is cleverly
all-knowing.

“She’s dead.” Max replies.


(c) Rob Goldstein 2015-2016 All Rights Reserved

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A Flight of Ideas: David and Louise

David weighs 300 pounds but thinks he’s a skinny woman
named Louise.

David’s face squirms on his skull like a snake shedding its skin.

It’s a side effect of his meds.

David draws Louise on his belly with lipstick so everyone else
will see her.

Louise is a sage young woman with wise advice.

Louise thinks I should forget about Nurse Judy and fuck a
slab of liver.

One day Louise said she was pissed about her face and hated
the man that owns it.

I said I’d ask for more cogentin but Louise wanted David to ask.

I decided to slice David’s face so Louise could get some rest.

I told Judy about it in the dining room and realized I was trapped
in the movie, Possessed.

If this is hard to understand try being me.

I am also a face; an amorphous face that doesn’t exist.

You are here because you want to be here:

SO WHY BLAME ME FOR WHAT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND?

Perhaps I’m a homeless old man raving in the back
of a crowded city bus.

But you’ve paid to see this so why are you complaining?

And if you’re not complaining, why not?

Digital painting of a face iin shadows, based on a VR photo of an avatar
I am also a face; an amorphous face that doesn’t exist

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved.

A Flight of Ideas-The Coke Conspiracy

No. Judy doesn’t love me.  And I don’t love her.

Her job is to help me do my job and in that way
our jobs are secure.

Together we could climb a summit of immense
dimensions!

I lay on the mat in the seclusion room and
considered the War in Viet Nam.

Had the hippies ended it or was it economics?

I mean, had the peace movement become another
hot property, or was it a brand?

I mean, why would Coke want to teach the World
to sing?

How much money does Coke make if everyone
in the World buys everyone in the World one
Coke per day?

I quickly do the math: 7.2 billion people x $2.65
USD per can of coke = $19.08 billion USD!

Per day!

Why is a man who understands Coke’s conspiracy
to end World hunger in a seclusion room?

I called to tell Judy; she had to know my secret!

But she was washing broccoli out of her hair.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved.

A Flight of Ideas-Little Reagan

I was under powerful witchcraft and hoped I was possessed.

I thought of little Reagan: the tricks he could do with a crucifix.

He was light in the head yet raised by circumstance.

Were I novelist I’d have written the story but instead I spinned
and spewed broccoli.

Judy asked if I was trying to vomit and I snarled, “No! I need a
fucking exorcist!”

Judy said what I really needed was a time out until I learned
to govern myself.

The staff carried me off before I could levitate.

I’m in seclusion and starting to think that Judy doesn’t love me.

Rob Goldstein (c) 2017 All Rights Reserved  

A Flight of Ideas – High Art

My cheeks are red; like cuts of fresh beef.

This clarity of complexion is significant but I can’t locate its source.

The source of significance is always obscure, like the meaning of “High Art’.

Let us assume for a moment that ‘high art’ is art that makes no sense.

Let us also assume that high art is useless.

By virtue of assumption, we enter the realm of critic: one responsible for deciding what is high and who goes low.

They name what we haven’t.

Delusional grandiosity is the basis of all civilized discourse.

What we say is true, is true, because we say it is.

Thus, I poke my complexion and objectively call it clear, but can I
call it high?


(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

A Flight of Ideas-Ruminations

Judy asked if I was ready to come
out on the floor.

Think of it: come out on the floor.

What does it mean?

Say it enough and it’s meaningless.

Come Out. On. The. Floor.

Say it enough and it’s paralyses.

The position I’m in right now?

I’m on a mat in the seclusion room.

The walls are wet and swell with milk
for me.

With milk. For me.

I for one will never believe I am
Christ; the responsibility is enough
to bust a nut!

But I am lonely.

All I really want is to love.

Is that wrong?

Judy asked if I’m ready to come out
on the floor.

Think of it: come out. on the floor.

What can it mean?

“I only read simple things.” I reply.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

The Way

One way to do it, he says, is to douse yourself in
alcohol and set your bed on fire.

In the hole men chew their veins out; now that’s
ambition!

These are lectures on Blood and the Way.

With God’s love we are never abandoned.

He is the way and a way out

–unlock–pull trigger–

“I’m a hustler, he says, I never go back to
the same trick twice for a cigarette!”

As a finale we laugh ourselves to death.

Rob Goldstein (c) 2014-2017 All Rights Reserved

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A Flight of Ideas-Perry Mason

I lift weights but don’t have the bulk for presence.

Men don’t enter rooms, we barge into them; think of Paul
Drake and Perry  Mason, think of the bulk in those suits.

Think of Della Street; why is she so fawning and efficient?

What does she do when she’s not pursing her lips?

These questions race through my mind as I lay on the mat
in the seclusion room.

Finally, Nurse Judy unlocks the door to ask if she can trust
me on the unit.

Of course, I say yes, wouldn’t you?

I watch the little dimples in her ass appear and disappear
as she leaves to fetch wrist restraints.

When we’re alone, we shall mate like peacocks.

Rob Goldstein (c) 2017 All Rights Reserved

The Executive

The alarm rang and the radio spat news.

Bonwit Teller opened his eyes to a foggy San Francisco morning.

He threw off the comforter, angrily pulled down the shades, and
crawled back into bed.

The phone rang

“Hi Bonwit, it’s Jerry. This is your wake-up call per your request.”
“Hi Jerry”
“Are you up?”
“Yes”
“That was a helluva rant you gave last night”
“Which one? I was drunk.”
“About old man Lazaro.”

Bonwit sat up.

Jerry continued: “You made old man Lazaro look like a jackass.”

Bonwit answered: “I guess I owe him an apology. I say wicked things
when I’m drunk. Thanks for the wake-up Jerry.”

Market Street looked like the Exodus scene from the Ten Commandments.

“Let my people go,” Bonwit heard a beggar say.

He dropped some cash into the beggars’ cup and hurried into
the underground.

He saw the same beggar sitting cross-legged in front of the
ticket machine.

He held a sign that read: “Dying from AIDS. Please help me.”

Bonwit dropped some cash into his cup and hurried onto
the platform.

The N-Judah to Ocean Beach arrived; Bonwit was desperate
to take it.

He wanted to run from the Financial District and its beggars who follow him everywhere, who sit in front of the Pyramid and glare at him: as if he is the one who stripped them of everything and left them to starve.

“They glare at me.,” Bonwit muttered to himself. “Not my secretary; not
old man Lazaro.”

Lazaro’s face formed in his mind; boyish yet old; kind yet cruel.

Bonwit spat on that face and remembered his rage at last night’s dinner.

Lazaro compared Bonwit to a General in a noble army.

“That’s what you are.” Lazaro said. “And the sales force is your troops. They depend on you for supplies and protection. Think of our company as a complex system of privileges and obligations. Your people need you Bonwit.”

“I’m just a fucking travel agent and you’re just an old queen!” Bonwit drunkenly snarled.

Bonwit rose from the Montgomery Street Station and walked to the Pyramid.

The skyscrapers sprouted arms and hands; they pointed at him
and jeered.

Bonwit entered the elevator and felt his stomach drop.

Bonwit thought; I am truly a pain in the ass.

As if I don’t know why I’m here.

I am Master.  It’s that simple.

The doors opened onto the thirteenth floor and Bonwit smiled benevolently at the housekeeper. “Good morning Violet.”

“’’Morning Mister Teller.”

“Have I met my obligations to you this week?”

“I got a paycheck if that’s what you mean?”

“I’m so pleased.” Bonwit replied.

He entered his office and rang his secretary: “Mary, will you call the Whiskey Shop and have a bottle of Macallan 1939 delivered to Mr. Lazaro?

“Yes Mr. Teller. Mr. Lazaro is in his office and wants to meet with you.”

Bonwit entered Lazaro’s office and took a seat.

Lazaro glared at him. “Bonwit, darling! You’re late.”

“I walked this morning.”

“That’s terrible for the waistline! I’m removing you from the Texaco Account. Shirley complained this morning.”

“About what.”

“She said Hal’s tickets were late.”

“I had those tickets printed and sent before Shirley ordered them.”

Lazaro shrugged and smiled. “Maybe she has it in for you.”

Bonwit returned to his office and crossed to the picture window
behind his desk.

He studied the expanse of the Bay Bridge and the inviting waters
below.

 

 

...and at the inviting waters below...
…and at the inviting waters below…

 

 

 

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These Mornings

 

That April Chuck bought a lightweight three-piece suit
from Brook’s Brothers.

The next day he dressed and explored the office buildings
in San Francisco’s Financial District.

He liked the Alcoa Building and arrived every morning
at nine to ride the elevator.

Chuck always got out on the thirteenth floor and
he always took the stairwell down.

Chuck eventually made friends with the other office
workers who arrived and entered the elevator promptly
at nine.

Eventually everyone said good morning to Chuck and
Chuck felt loved and accepted.

Then one day a trim young executive in a snazzy Calvin
Klein asked Chuck why he always wore the same
suit to work; and it was time to find another building.

(c) Rob Goldstein All Rights Reserved 2015-2017

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