Staffers recommended we call AND e-mail, (212) 416-6218 and e-mail address: email@example.com.
Your message only needs to say: "Hi, my name is [ ] and as a concerned American, I urge you to please investigate President Trump's possible violations of the Emoluments Clause."
(That's the clause in the Constitution that says that the President may not enrich himself because of his office while serving as president.)
by Lyn Thorne-Alder
He should have stocked his room’s tiny kitchenette.
One of the Fifth Cohort — Wylie or Wayne or something like that – had warned Abednego. “Look, best thing I can tell you is, stock that fridge and keep it full, keep the cupboards full. Sometimes you’re just not going to want to go out to the dining hall.”
What is that place? A building, constructed by slave labor from wood and stone and glass, built to be impressive but also built to be a public official's private home. It has had laundry hung indoors from lines stretched across meeting rooms when the weather was wet and the sheets *had* to get dry. (The weather can be wet in that particular part of downtown in summer more often than elsewhere; it has to do with land contours, prevailing winds, and the affinity of humidity for places near major waterways -- the Potomac, the Tidal Basin, even all those reflecting pools. Thunderstorms that turn the sky purple-black can come up out of nowhere sometimes, and afterward it's still as humid as before.)
It's been rebuilt and reworked every few years, sometimes by necessity; Harry Truman's beloved piano was heavy enough that it nearly fell through the floor of the room it was in (damp rot, anyone?) Also, it was rebuilt from the original pale yellow structure after the War of 1812, of which it was a casualty. There is a swimming pool, and a bowling alley, a cafeteria and a catering center. There are guest rooms and historical rooms where previous occupants said or did things. There are public and private areas in a building that is, at least in a titular way, public.
It is just a building. Those who say things, all of them, any of the things, could be out on the lawn instead of in the Oval Office with the blue rug and the changeable eagle (yes, characters on "The West Wing", I do check to see which way it's facing). They could be outdoors under the cover of the portico. They could be in the so-called War Room or the hyperconnected command center downstairs. They could be in the bunker underneath the house itself -- what a message that would make!
The White House does not say anything. Neither does its West Wing, regardless of the TV series. Neither does the Senate wing of the Capitol, or the House wing. Neither do the Senate or House office buildings, whose longer formal names I forget.
The only people who let buildings do their talking, or try to, are ones who don't have the nerve to take credit for their own words. It's a political maneuver, to give them deniability. It's also dishonest.
The White House doesn't say a damn thing. Remember that, the next time some bloviating newscaster alleges that it does. If it did, it might say something entirely different from what the current occupants and the officials and anyone else might expect. But that would not make the news, would it?
Previous: Funeral: Negotiation
The security guards wrapped up with Muirgen and headed back into the lawyer’s office, just as someone in a well-fitted but cheap suit stalked out of the room. Senga watched the man go with curiosity.
“One of Mirabella’s bean-counters,” Silence murmured. “Always thought he was underappreciated. Guess the will hearing justified that.”
“Maybe she threatened his life and reputation too,” Senga responded in the same low term. “Maybe he didn’t appreciate being treated like someone she ‘appreciated’ after all.”
“I’ll note she didn’t do that with her daughters.”
“Neither did she give her daughters diddly. They’re - well. You probably know them better than I do.”
“Ah, but they’re your family. And it’s their mother’s funeral.”
“And they’re on par with Mister cheap suit there,” she added in the same casual, quiet tone. “They don’t get the big things. They’re just not as important as they think they are. Of course, that won’t stop them from killing me,” she added ruefully. “And they’ve wanted to do that for a while.”
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Talking to Mike was somewhere between miserable and awful, but Luke did his best to pretend that nothing had changed. Mike didn’t want his apology; didn’t want to hear about it. Okay. Until he could figure out what he was supposed to say, then, he could pretend like nothing was wrong.
“Stop looming, Birdbrain, you’re going to curdle the paint.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Neither does you lingering by the door like you’re trying to figure out ‘goth’ decades too late.”
“Thanks,” Luke muttered. “I figured out goth just fine.”
“Really? Now that I have to hear. Not now, though. What brings you here melting the finish on my doorframe?”
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When fire comes if you throw water on it, it may or may not go out. If you throw chemicals on it, you've fucked the environment and possibly your health. If you don't cover every last ember in foam, the ashes may yet come roaring back to life.
So you think, hmmph, maybe I'll pray on it. Nope, doesn't make it go out, either.
Learn from the experts: controlled burns are the best.
Firefighters know a thing or two about fires. Their entire job is to save people and put those blazes out. In order to not have to save people, one thing they do to prevent fires is...set them. Now pretend Trump is the fire. How do you put it out?
This is actually kind of easy. He's a Norman Vincent Peale devotee; in my twenties, so was I. While I wouldn't knowingly revisit my NVP days (see this criticism), Trump is currently still living them, so so should you.
What do I mean? A lot of Peale's philosophy was "believe you can". Believe you can make the sale. Believe you can close the deal. Believe you can overcome. Believe.
Russians, Comey, white people: there are so many reasons to think "this is why Trump's in office".
Clear your mind and let yourself think, just for a sec, that none of that even matters because more than anything, he believed himself into office. He believed himself there. You simply want him out more than he wanted in. You want him out that much. More than he wanted in, you want him out.
Will it work? Eh. Odds are a long shot.
Will it destroy his time in office and give him nearly nothing to look back on with pleasure besides the rather questionable act of getting elected? Exactly. So leave him to cherish all his many false memories of that; fair enough trade once he's gone.
If this sounds like religion, fear not, for in a weird way, it is. Norman Vincent Peale was not just the most famous salesman of all time: he was also a minister - Trump's minister, to be precise. Peale's advice, therefore, has religious themes (sometimes blatant) so read his book, and get a feel for how Trump thinks.
If at times he's ridiculously positive it's because he was brought up to be. If he's Teflon™ it's because nothing can stick to that sort of belief. While this might normally be an admirable character trait, Trump's use of it overall has been blatantly selfish and repugnant.
Be the example of what non-stick-coated belief should look like, and give it the reasons why it should exist. Want him out more than he wanted in. He's not wanted in as much as you think, and wants out more than you might know.
Make him want out more than he ever wanted in. Convince him it's the only thing he's ever wanted.
Or in firefighter terms: the whole damn forest might burn if we don't light some weeds on the other side of this, so please pass some matches.
Sir ran a hand over the side of Ctirad’s hair. Ermenrich had cut it short again, shaved on the sides, military-looking. Ctirad hated it that way - but it wasn’t his hair, any more than when he had been in the military. “So, I trust Sal with my life, with my secrets, and with a good deal of my fortune - and not just in this car, which you can’t see at the moment, but is very expensive. But I assured you that when we weren’t alone, I would not make you answer questions - and while Sal does count as ‘private’ for me, I can’t say the same for you. You follow?”
Oh. “I… follow, sir.” Ctirad swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Easy there, darling. Remember, I said this would be up to you? So. The question is, what do you want to do?”
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and Also Needs a Title
and More Cya Date.
They ordered dinner. There was a moment where it looked like Manus expected Cya to order for him; then he coughed and ordered his own food. Something different than she’d have picked; she wondered if he did it out of some residual defiance.
She hoped not. She didn’t want defiant, because defiant meant he was still thinking of her as an authority figure. Domme, maybe. She could definitely get behind (ha) that. But not authority figure in the rest of his life.
“So,” she asked, over delicious white bread that tasted all the better for remembering years where white flour was hard to come by, with a dipping sauce of Cloverleaf-grown olives (one of her proudest accomplishments was that tiny greenhouse orchard). “Tell me more about being a judge-and-diplomat?”
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Find Chapter 1 here
Chapter 2 is here
Chapter 3 is here
Chapter 4 is here
Chapter 5 is here
Chapter 6 is here
Chapter 7 is here.
Chapter 8: here
Chapter 9: here
Chapter 10: here
Chapter 11 (R-Rated) here
Chapter 12: here
Chapter 13: here
Chapter 14: here
Chapter 15: here
Chapter 16: here
Chapter 17: here
Chapter 18: here
Chapter 19: here
You can skip Chapter 11 without losing the plot.
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Hubby, visiting for the weekend, comes in from working on the car and just stops to breathe it in. "Wow, that smells SO good!"
If someone could make a perfume that really smelled like fresh roasted chicken with homemade biscuits it would be amazing - wear it on a date to bring all the guys flocking!
Published: March 2017 by Hodder & Stoughton
Format reviewed: E-book (mobi)
Series: Strange the Dreamer #1
Genres: Epic fantasy, YA romance
Available: Publisher (print) ~ Abbey’s ~ Amazon ~ Barnes & Noble ~ Book Depository ~ Booktopia ~ Dymocks ~ Kobo
Disclaimer: I was provided with a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.
The dream chooses the dreamer, not the other way around – and Lazlo Strange, war orphan and junior librarian, has always feared that his dream chose poorly. Since he was five years old he’s been obsessed with the mythic lost city of Weep, but it would take someone bolder than he to cross half the world in search of it. Then a stunning opportunity presents itself, in the person of a hero called the Godslayer and a band of legendary warriors, and he has to seize his chance to lose his dream forever.
What happened in Weep two hundred years ago to cut it off from the rest of the world? What exactly did the Godslayer slay that went by the name of god? And what is the mysterious problem he now seeks help in solving?
The answers await in Weep, but so do more mysteries – including the blue-skinned goddess who appears in Lazlo’s dreams. How did he dream her before he knew she existed? And if all the gods are dead, why does she seem so real?
Strange the Dreamer is another of the gorgeously mythic fantasy romances that Laini Taylor excels at. However, while I enjoyed it thoroughly, it had a few flaws.
Lazlo Strange is a wonderful character likely to appeal to bookworms. He’s not your usual stunningly-attractive hero. Instead, he’s a bit rough around the edges and had his nose broken when a book of fairytales landed on his face–which tells you everything you need to know about Lazlo. He was a highly imaginative boy with a thirst for stories who grew into a librarian with his nose stuck in a book. Before he went adventuring, of course. He works hard and is the sort of person to offer help to his rival simply because it’s needed.
The book takes us all the way from Lazlo’s humble beginnings to his deeds in Weep. This allows readers to get to know Lazlo well, but makes for a slow-paced story. I usually don’t mind this approach, but even I felt it was starting to drag.
It’s a story full of whimsy and the mythic that Taylor does so well. She is brilliant at creating a mood and making the impossibly epic seem plausible. The descriptions were lovely with some gorgeous turns of phrase. However, a little goes a long way–another reason the pace dragged in places.
Despite its sense of whimsy, it is quite a dark story. Readers triggered by rape and forced pregnancy may want to tread cautiously. These incidents never happen onscreen, but their impact resonates throughout the book. It’s a story that deals with cycles of violence and the seeming impossibility of breaking them.
Strange the Dreamer felt like it trod a lot of the same ground as Daughter of Smoke and Bone. Some of it was the structure: the slow set-up, the gradual uncovering of the past and the late explosion into action. There were also some thematic elements that cropped up, such as the preoccupation with angels and demons (here flavoured with some Hindu-inspired elements such as the appearance and titles of the gods). The trajectory of Lazlo’s relationship with Sarai also felt very familiar and may be a bit too insta-love for some readers.
I was somewhat disappointed with the relationship between the female characters of this book. It’s a story that barely passes the Bechdel-Wallis test, with the female characters either isolated, preoccupied with the men in their life or at odds with each other.
It may sound as if I didn’t enjoy Strange the Dreamer when it actually swept me away (once it warmed up). I enjoyed the dark whimsy of it and the later stages of the book do a fantastic job of building tension. I’ll definitely be watching for the next book. However, this is definitely not going to be the book for everyone.
Mirrored from Earl Grey Editing.
The rebellion had gone far more smoothly than anyone had ever expected such a thing might go.
It was bloody, of course; it was violent, of course, and in the end there were nearly as many slaves dead as owners.
The thing was, though: there were a lot more slaves than owners, and they had been a lot more willing to die than their owners had.
Paleyah Rose, formerly Junior Lady of Rose Heights, had not been willing to die, and her personal slaves had not felt very strongly about killing her, the way some owner’s slaves had. She was incarcerated in what had been the slave quarters of Rose Heights, and she had been put to work with such tasks as the current establishment believed she might be able to handle. At the moment, that was light cleaning and light food preparation, her former Head Chef keeping the position but working under his own free will now.
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