Monday, July 31, 2017

AP July 31, 2017, 5:42 PM Harvard accidentally lists Scaramucci as dead in alumni directory

I still have not watched any news since 8 pm on 8 November 2016, but I hear things in the supermarket. The thing to say about this "mistake" of Harvard's is that when you go so far over into the dark side people just assume you have kept going.

Morro Rock withstands the chill today

In the 50s early--T-shirt over my head resting on my shoulders so my neck is protected from the chill. We deal with inconveniences with gallantry here.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Cousin Harlon Hill the Football Player


Cousin Harlon Hill (1932-2013), one of the Lauderdale County Alabama Hills, was a very good football player



Harlon Junious Hill
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Birth: 
May 4, 1932
Killen
Lauderdale County
Alabama, USA
Death: 
Mar. 21, 2013
Florence
Lauderdale County
Alabama, USA

Professional Football Player. For nine seasons (1954 to 1962), he played at the left-offensive end and defensive back positions in the National Football League with the Chicago Bears, Detroit Lions and Pittsburgh Steelers. Born Harlon Junious Hill, he attended Lauderdale County High School in Alabama and played collegiate football at the University of North Alabama while earning a Bachelor of Science degree in Education. Selected by the Bears during the 15th-round of the 1954 NFL Draft, he appeared in 103 regular season games. His impact on the league was immediate as he led the NFL with 12 touchdown receptions for which earned him Rookie of the Year honors (1954). The following season (1955), his 9 league-leading touchdown receptions allowed for him to capture the NFL MVP Award. In 1956, he experienced playing in the NFL Championship Game as he was a significant contributor during the Bears' run that season. Additionally, Hill received Pro-Bowl honors three consecutive years (1954 to 1956) and First-Team All-Pro recognition twice (1955 and 1956). After retiring from football, he returned to the University of North Alabama and served as an assistant football coach while attaining his Masters Degree in Education. Hill went onto become a public school teacher. In 1986, the NCAA Division II Annual Award given to the best player was renamed in The Harlon Hill Trophy in his honor. He was inducted into the Alabama Sports Hall of Fame in 1976. His 4,616 receiving yards and 40 touchdown receptions as a Chicago Bear ranks him second in both statistics to date. (bio by: C.S.) 
 
Family links: 
 Parents:
  Frank Beatrice Hill (1905 - 1991)
  Bessie G. Simpson Hill (1910 - 2003)
 
 Spouse:
  Virginia Ann Sellers Hill (1931 - 2008)
 
 Siblings:
  Dorothy Hill Alexander (1926 - 2011)*
  Harlon Junious Hill (1932 - 2013)
  Marsue Hill Haraway (1935 - 2011)*
  Doyle Glenn Hill (1941 - 2009)*
 
*Calculated relationship
 
Burial:
Tri-Cities Memorial Gardens
Florence
Lauderdale County
Alabama, USA
 
Edit Virtual Cemetery info [?]
 
Maintained by: Find A Grave
Originally Created by: Joy
Record added: May 08, 2011
Find A Grave Memorial

Another perfect day--just a bit chilly at 10, soft wind off water

A Clinker of a Blurb Geraldine Brooks should have read out loud before sending off



"Couples the urgency of a compulsively readable crime thriller with a quiet meditation on the meaning of family."

Especially the meaning of couples?

More about Aut Hill the mysterious Great Great Grandfather and how the search goes on

Yesterday I posted this:

Alston Hill or Austin Hill or Auston Hill--A Man Who Left No Deep Mark

After a couple of days of focusing on this son of Henry Hill and Judith Nabors Hill (both of whom have gravestones I have seen in Lauderdale, Alabama) I realized it's time to throw up my hands, temporarily. I am used to genuinely ornery ancestors and collateral relatives, people who had recorded displays of individuality. Recently, for instance, I found that David Knox, an ankle-bracelet sort of Whig allowed loose in Charlotte during Cornwallis's brief occupation, risked his life when news came of King's Mountain, jumping onto a pile of logs and crowing like a rooster, slapping his thighs, and saying "THE DAY IS AT HAND." That kind of thing delights me but does not surprise me anymore. But what about Austin or Alston or whatever Hill, born around 1818 in (different records say) South Carolina, Alabama, or Kentucky? His father Henry was a Methodist preacher, a circuit rider, who is said to have died in Lauderdale Co. just because his grave is there but who really died off on a preaching mission to Mississippi. Could he and Judith and some their mob of children have gone to Green (meaning Greene) Co. KY to take a church only to find it hostile to the Hill brand of Methodism? Well, I could trace all the older children and see if they dropped off along the travels. But where does the information about KY come from? Oh, from Fold3 and Austin's service on the (gasp) Union side in the Civil War, where there is a physical description I hope is for my Austin, 6' 1" being the highest white ancestor, though not comparing with Grandpa John B. E. Glenn's well documented Mex War height, 6' 5"--. He was living in Arkansas near enough to have enlisted at Dardanelle in Yell County. Or was he the Aston Hill in the 4th Arkansas Cavalry--Confederate? Was he born in SC as one census says or in Ala as another says or in, gasp again, KY, as the clear 1880 census says. He married, and married, and maybe married again, the middle one to Mary Jane Sims who by that time had children from her marriage to the late G. W. Meek, as documented in the 1860 census. Mary Jane was the daughter of the very vivid Absalom Sims, son of the Widow Sims who married the great senator from multiple states, William Cocke, the hero of the Lost State of Frankllin, and died in their great 2 story log house, dog trot, cross hall, on the site of the present Tennessee Williams Welcome Center. Austin or Alston or whoever left no record in Arkansas county histories that I have found. No anecdotes about him are known to survive. It is as if he made no mark or seems so because I have found no marks I am sure are his. This puts me where I was 15 years ago, knowing nothing but the difference was that then I really knew only 2 tiny anecdotes about two ancestors. Now, hundreds of earlier Americans are alive to me--but not, yet, not yet, Aught, Ought, or Naught or whatever those who knew him called him. Maybe someone who knows more will see this . . . .

WELL! I thought about this and realized I have not looked for a long time at THE HERITAGE OF LAUDERDALE COUNTY, ALABAMA. There I find more information. I messaged Cousin Sherrill this morning: 7:24am
Sherrill, on Alston, known as "Aut" born in Allen Co KY not Green Co--Henry and Judith were in Allen Co. 1817 -1818 or so and Sarah there married Aaron Mayhew---So 1818 is good for the baby Aut being born as Sarah gets married. 249 The Heritage of Lauderdale County Alabama.

What else can we find about Uncle Aaron and Aunt Sarah? And about the circumstances of Aut's going off to Arkansas with his first family. Maybe yet we can find a scrap of characterization. Was he the only ancestor or relative of any kind who was not ornery?

So Henry Hill and Judith Nabors Hill went way out of the way to KY for a while. Aut knew that the family was from SC and forgot if he had been told that he had been born in an odd state, and then (if the Union soldier was my Aut) misremembered the county as Green and in 1880 said just KY, if he was the source for the information. I remember that the 1940 census has me years older than I was then: who was home to give information and how competent was the census taker?

Oh for a HERITAGE OF LOGAN COUNTY ARKANSAS. I will keep trying for just one little glimpse of character.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

The Rock at Noon


A mile north--straight down from the parking lot


Alston Hill or Austin Hill or Auston Hill--A Man Who Left No Deep Mark

After a couple of days of focusing on this son of Henry Hill and Judith Nabors Hill (both of whom have gravestones I have seen in Lauderdale, Alabama) I realized it's time to throw up my hands, temporarily. I am used to genuinely ornery ancestors and collateral relatives, people who had recorded displays of individuality. Recently, for instance, I found that David Knox, an ankle-bracelet sort of Whig allowed loose in Charlotte during Cornwallis's brief occupation, risked his life when news came of King's Mountain, jumping onto a pile of logs and crowing like a rooster, slapping his thighs, and saying "THE DAY IS AT HAND." That kind of thing delights me but does not surprise me anymore. But what about Austin or Alston or whatever Hill, born around 1818 in (different records say) South Carolina, Alabama, or Kentucky? His father Henry was a Methodist preacher, a circuit rider, who is said to have died in Lauderdale Co. just because his grave is there but who really died off on a preaching mission to Mississippi. Could he and Judith and some their mob of children have gone to Green (meaning Greene) Co. KY to take a church only to find it hostile to the Hill brand of Methodism? Well, I could trace all the older children and see if they dropped off along the travels. But where does the information about KY come from? Oh, from Fold3 and Austin's service on the (gasp) Union side in the Civil War, where there is a physical description I hope is for my Austin, 6' 1" being the highest white ancestor, though not comparing with Grandpa John B. E. Glenn's well documented Mex War height, 6' 5"--. He was living in Arkansas near enough to have enlisted at Dardanelle in Yell County. Or was he the Aston Hill in the 4th Arkansas Cavalry--Confederate? Was he born in SC as one census says or in Ala as another says or in, gasp again, KY, as the clear 1880 census says. He married, and married, and maybe married again, the middle one to Mary Jane Sims who by that time had children from her marriage to the late G. W. Meek, as documented in the 1860 census. Mary Jane was the daughter of the very vivid Absalom Sims, son of the Widow Sims who married the great senator from multiple states, William Cocke, the hero of the Lost State of Frankllin, and died in their great 2 story log house, dog trot, cross hall, on the site of the present Tennessee Williams Welcome Center. Austin or Alston or whoever left no record in Arkansas county histories that I have found. No anecdotes about him are known to survive. It is as if he made no mark or seems so because I have found no marks I am sure are his. This puts me where I was 15 years ago, knowing nothing but the difference was that then I really knew only 2 tiny anecdotes about two ancestors. Now, hundreds of earlier Americans are alive to me--but not, yet, not yet, Aught, Ought, or Naught or whatever those who knew him called him. Maybe someone who knows more will see this . . . .

Friday, July 21, 2017

On way back north woman asked me if she was going toward the Rock. I said, You Couldn't Prove It By Me Today

Still not watching News but Saw OJ is to be Paroled

I remember that he drove home that day on 26th Street after seeing Nicole and Ron for the last time, 26th street being behind the house I was in during the 70s--familiar terrain. I even knew Rockingham. Now, I am horrified of betting. Betting is what caused that house to be sold a couple of years ago as a $5,100,000 teardown--the owner since the mid 80s having done complicated betting at Santa Anita to the tune of a $100,000,000 loss, said the Hollywood papers.
So OJ has been in Lovelock. On 3 June 1998 Lovelock was a great place to replace a dragging muffler and get us back on the road to Auburn, California. Lovelock was a great place. And when you are in the lead with the Bronco the other driving behind can see something dragging . . . .
So now I am open for bets. How long? 2 weeks? 3 weeks? before OJ is in the news again, having (his lawyers will argue) NOT NOT NOT violated his parole by this or that or the more serious other activity?

Thursday, July 20, 2017

I knew then and certainly was confirmed later with news about the eye

When one is older than John McCain one does not make jokes lightly about other people's health. But I knew something was seriously wrong in June and in July (however cruel it sounded) knew that what was leaking out of his eye was not merely mucous and a little blood. After all McCain has gone through--well, he should have thought about what was best for him and his family at the last election. Wind me up and point me in the right direction, we say. Up, Old Horse, we say.

Washington Post in early June:
Sen. John McCain (R-Ariz.) was the last senator to question former FBI director James B. Comey at Thursday's Senate Intelligence Committee hearing. Nearing the end of more than 2½ hours of questioning, McCain focused his line on two FBI inquiries: the 2016 investigation of Hillary Clinton's use of a private email server as secretary of state and the 2017 investigation of Russian interference in the presidential election.
But several of his questions confused viewers, and seemingly Comey himself, and he occasionally was incoherent. He referred to “President Comey,” and at times looked confused and frustrated with Comey's answers. Viewers clearly thought it was notable; Twitter announced it was the most-tweeted moment of the hearing

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Mysterious Rock--the Great Frank H. Running Toward It

Appliance man gets what he deserves from Pouya


We tried going local (Morro Bay) and bought two appliances right here and both were faulty so we went with Fordens, the big San Luis store, from then on. This morning I had a lot of errands to do and many bags to carry in. The appliance truck was parked in my space in front of the house, so I had to carry bags (including perishables) a long distance. I was not pleased, since he could easily have parked elsewhere. However, there is a pleasant ending. Someone I know had the foresight to plant pouya at the curb where dogs were defecating, the theory being that even the dumbest dog-owner would learn to direct her or his dogs to the bright green water-loving square nearby. Well, while I was filling the birdbath I saw the appliance man come out and stomp right on the pouya which I am ecstatic to say fought back. He broke a few fronds, but the next time he came out he went around to the driver's side.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Fire a little to the south

More evacuations issued as Alamo Fire grows to 3,400 acres, burns at ‘extreme rate’
By Lindsey Holden
lholden@thetribunenews.com

Follow Day 3 coverage of the Alamo Fire here: http://tribne.ws/2tUEL9M
▪ ▪ ▪ 
Update: Midnight
The mandatory evacuation area has been expanded for the Alamo Fire, according to Santa Barbara County Fire. An evacuation order is in place for Tepusquet Road from Blazing Saddle Drive south to Santa Maria Mesa Road. This includes the Colson Canyon area.
Santa Barbara County earlier issued a mandatory evacuation for White Rock Lane and the Tepusquet Canyon/Blazing Saddle Drive area.

Update: 7:35 p.m.
The Alamo Fire has grown to 3,400 acres.
Update: 6:07 p.m.
The Red Cross has opened a shelter for residents affected by the Alamo Fire at the Minami Community Center in Santa Maria. The center is located at 600 West Enos Drive.

Read more here: http://www.sanluisobispo.com/news/local/article160114199.html#storylink=cpy

Morro Rock from Usual Standpoint

Morro Rock from Duck Creek

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Looking for "James Ewart Hill" and "Robert Ewart Hill"

These sons of Sarah Ewart 1768-1801 and Thomas Hill (probably 1769 to 1840s) were alive in Lincoln County, NC, in 1818, both over 21, born in 1787 or the next years, but before 1801. They had prosperous Lincoln County connections. What happened to them? If you leave out the middle name "Ewart" you are left with something pretty near "William Smith" when you are hunting in the census tables.

Pleasant here--in the 60s. Over the hill, 110+

110+ over the Hill

What will it be like in Morro Bay?

Monday, July 3, 2017

YOU DID NOT KNOW? "Just as Trump was getting ready to give up, his eyes fell on Hershel Parker’s monumental biography of Herman Melville."


WOULD ANDY JAYSNOVITCH SAY IT IF IT WAS NOT TRUE?

March 12, 2012
My Rejected Shouts and Murmurs Story
IT’S A TRUMP, TRUMP, TRUMP, TRUMP WORLD
copyright 2012 by Andy Jaysnovitch
It all started innocently enough. It was the morning after the Super Bowl and advertising whiz Donny Deutsch was on The Today Show brainstorming new uses for old slogans. Everybody just loved his favorite — “Things Go Better With Trump.” The Donald, watching his pal from his Fifth Avenue aerie while he proofed his latest book, Genghis Khan, My Brother My Mentor: Negotiate Like a Mongol Warrior, gently handed Melania his Limoges tea cup and sprang into action. Knowing that Coca-Cola was on the ropes fighting the junk drinks tax, Trump was able to quickly forge a deal to use the new slogan — so quickly in fact that he was able to do it before The Today Show had left the air. Hearing about this, Matt Lauer and Ann Curry stood there speechless while Al Roker uttered the words that would ultimately lead to the downfall of the mighty Trump empire, a crash that would make the fall of the Roman Empire look like a minor dust-up. And all it took was a new Rokerism: “Well, I guess it’s a Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump world!”
In Hollywood, the moguls were still nestled in their beds when Roker’s words shook the earth, but in Trump-like style, they soon sprang into action. The head of MGM, or what passes for it these days, decided to rerelease It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World as It’s a Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump World, and he called on James Cameron to pull off this audacious feat. Cameron spent six days and six nights holed up in an editing room in Burbank and when he emerged at dawn on the seventh day, he triumphantly held aloft his workprint. Under security normally reserved only for heads of state, the police parted the sea of paparazzi and soon Cameron and his film were jetting eastward for the premiere at Radio City Music Hall.
In New York, a mob of anxious moviegoers that stretched all the way to the George Washington Bridge had been lining up ever since word of the project had been leaked in the trades. In dramatic fashion (or was it Cameron?), the city was swept by a monumental thunderstorm that lit up the night sky brighter than a thousand klieg lights. Amazingly, only three people were trampled to death when the impatient crowd rushed the theatre. The film proved to be such a resounding success that MGM immediately announced that they had inked Cameron to helm a sequel in which Trump would play all the roles himself except for the irreplaceable Larry Storch character that would be played by his avatar. Not to be outdone, George Lukas quietly parted ways with Harrison Ford and quickly announced his upcoming Indiana Trump and the Search For Scrooge McDuck’s Money Bin, a Disney coproduction.
It was here though that things started to go off the rails. While Trump basked in the afterglow of an adoring public, a mechanic from Massapequa, shrewdly sensing the value of the Trump mystique, was the first to change his name to Donald J. Trump. Then a story broke about a tattoo artist from Tottenville who had managed to parlay his new Donald Trump name change into a business so successful that he was able to afford an apartment in one of the real Trump’s residential castles. It was only a studio though, but it was a start.
And now the floodgates were opened. Everyone quickly realized how easy it was to change your name. In the US, there were eleven relatively easy steps, in the usually stodgy UK, only two! — just change your name, and start using it! Can you believe those Brits?
Within days, seemingly half the men on Facebook had changed their name to Donald J. Trump. Trump, for his part, did what any self-respecting emperor of the universe would do. He sued. It quickly became obvious though that there weren’t enough lawyers in the universe to prosecute these name stealers. Especially if he only employed lawyers that weren’t named Donald J. Trump because lawyers too had started changing their names. Predictably, it was only a matter of time before just changing your name to Trump wasn’t quite enough. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, there were more Trump impersonators than Elvis impersonators. In a sign of deference to the King though, only a small fraction of the Elvis impersonators changed their name, and even those that did, decided that they’d still rather look like Elvis.
Meanwhile, it was getting pretty hard to tell the genuine Trump anymore. When Random House discovered sixty-seven pallets of unsold copies of The Art of the Deal in a warehouse in Jersey, there was no shortage of Trumps who showed up to collect the loot.
And the name changing wave was now going worldwide. There were Duncan Trumps in Scotland and Yuri Trumps in Red Square. And, in a move that truly wounded him, Ivanka decided to change her name to Donatella (just call me Don for short!).
Truly, Trump had never faced a challenge like this in his life. Of course, there was the terrible pressure of trying to look good on TV which itself was no small achievement. Trump noted early on though that the camera was not his friend and shrewdly outsmarted it with a sizeable donation to the Film Editor’s Benevolent Fund.
For his part, Trump knew that the game was up when he spied his five year old son, Barron, on Entertainment Tonight outlining to Billy Bush his plans to break ground on competing projects in Atlantic City, Jersey City, and Dubai. As the piece was ending, it looked like the kid intentionally turned sideways. What was that, a tattoo? Trump blinked — he couldn’t believe his eyes! Where had he failed the lad? A competitor? No problem. But a tattoo? Wasn’t his son listening to him when he told Larry King that his kids would be tattooless? Didn’t he read his book, Townhouses Not Tattoos. And what miscreant would tattoo a five year old kid anyway? When he got through with whoever was responsible for this, they’d wish they were facing the Mongol hordes instead.
He rewound the piece and looked closer. It was a tattoo and it seemed to spell out HILTON. Are you kidding me? Had the kid changed his name to Barron Hilton? Trump couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Contrary to popular belief, he hadn’t named his kid after the famed hotelier. In truth, unlike his apprentices who hardly seemed to give naming a second thought, Trump had agonized over the kid’s name for weeks, finally deciding to name him after a series of children’s books that recounted the fantastic adventures of a character named Baron Trump. His grandfather had read them on the ship when he immigrated to America and had then given them to his son who had then passed them on to his young apprentice, Donald.
Trump, a man always in control of his emotions, a man not easily given to displays of anger, reluctantly ordered his housekeeper to smash a few dishes just to let the troops know of his displeasure. When this was done, Trump thought Barron actually looked like he was snickering. His disappointment in his pint-sized progeny was tinged with a soupcon of pride though. The kid was a contrarian at only five years old! He had presciently called the downfall of the once mighty Trump name. Still, this kid was going to be trouble. It was painfully obvious that he hadn’t read Ivanka’s book where she recounted the soul searching she went through when she contemplated piercing her navel. How could he punish Barron? Take away his apartment? Make him wear off-the-rack clothing? Could he fire the kid?
All this name changing couldn’t have come at a worse time. Now that Trump had decided to run for President, he was afraid there would be some confusion among the voting populace. At first his run for the White House was only a ratings ploy to give a boost to his Celebrity Apprentice, but Trump soon became convinced he could win the highest office in the land. Some might call it sappy, but he programmed his new wake-up music to Dan Fogelberg’s Run For the Roses. He had little trouble visualizing himself in the Rose Garden so he started to work variations of the word rose into every speech he made. Only one variant was off limits, that of the scrappy former talk show host who he detested.
Trump wasn’t sure but he thought that maybe all these newly minted Trumps might prove to be an asset rather than a liability. Wouldn’t they be loyal to the name and rather naturally pull his lever in the voting booth? To test his theory, he sent his driver into the wilds of Pennsylvania to find someone who was actually named Trump before all this nonsense started. In a matter of hours, Trump found himself face to face with a man who looked like he had come straight from the jungle. The other Donald J. Trump sitting before him was a parsnip farmer from Pottstown who had borne the famous name for twenty years before the developer was even out of diapers. Never one to beat around the bush, Trump got right to the point. “I brought you here today to find out if you’d vote for me for President.” The grizzled old farmer eyed him warily. “Where do you stand on parsnip subsidies?” the farmer spat at him. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had a parsnip,” Trump said, realizing instantly that he had made a rare mistake. The farmer couldn’t contain his displeasure. “And you call yourself presidential material?” Trump decided to remain calm and reason with the old guy. “Well, let’s see. We got rid of the guy with two first names. The guy named after a cave dwelling amphibian is history. And seriously, how long do you expect a guy named after a nuthouse to last?” “You know his name is Santorum,” the farmer countered. Trump exploded. “He’s crazier than Gary Busey! Why I’m the only guy with a normal name! Don’t tell me you’re going to vote for a guy named after a piece of athletic equipment!” The famer gave him a withering look. “I thought you just endorsed him. Didn’t you say that he’s tough and smart?” “Well, he is,” Trump shot back. “But I’m far tougher and far smarter. I still might have to run.” Then Trump grinned. “Just be glad that I’m not growing parsnips. If I was, the Trump parsnip would be renowned the world over.” Suddenly, a ghostly look swept the farmer’s face. “Now, you’ve really scared me. I think right after the election, I’m gonna move into my cave!” Trump looked thunderstruck. “Cave? You have a cave?” Trump asked, and here the craggy farmer looked like he was eyeing the village idiot. “Are you telling me a big-shot real estate fellow like yourself doesn’t even own a cave? President, my ass!”
Now the tumblers in Trump’s head were spinning like mad. After promising to eat his share of parsnips, he had the farmer shown out and he soon began buying up caves. Within an hour, he had options on every cave on the eastern seaboard and as night fell his agents were moving westward. By dawn, Trump had every cave in the country tied up.
Trump soon found he had little interest in the Presidency. He’d heard that the Rose Garden was often beset by swirling winds that would wreak havoc with his hair. There were no unkind air currents in caves though, and besides his hair looking good, caves would protect him in case this madly spinning sphere of ours was in as much trouble as it appeared to be in. Now that he had the market cornered in caves, there was only one piece of unfinished business to tidy up — to take revenge on all those name-stealers. While mere mortals would have folded here, Trump was just beginning to fight. With the instincts of the champion he was, Trump retreated to his stately library to mine the wisdom of the ancients. Sadly, he quickly discovered that he had failed to stock his library well. There was no Aristotle, no Plato, no Socrates. He did however discover a book by his pal, Donny Deutsch. As he pulled it from the shelf though, he winced. Even in its hand tooled leather binding, the book offended him. How can you title a book Often Wrong, Never in Doubt. He made a mental note that a future project for the apprentices could be renaming the book. In its present state, the title alone was enough to get you fired. Not a hypocrite, he winced again as he saw the title of one of his books. It was unseemly for a man of his stature to lay claim to a book with a title like that, but there it was staring him in the face — Think Big and Kick Ass. The apprentices could fix that one as well.
Just as Trump was getting ready to give up, his eyes fell on Hershel Parker’s monumental biography of Herman Melville. How it had found its way into his library, Trump couldn’t say, but one thing was for sure — he wasn’t prepared to read all two thousand pages of it. At first he thought of assigning it as a project for the apprentices, but he wasn’t sure those dolts could read anything more challenging than James Patterson, so rather reluctantly he dragged the books over to his favorite chair and settled in for a quick skim. Trump had spent years nurturing his brand, growing it from a tiny seed into a giant redwood. Now it was a pile of sawdust. His brand was in tatters. The branding problem was clearly Trump’s white whale. He wondered what the ever resourceful Melville would do if he were in his shoes? Trump began to skim the epic story of the great writer and the pesky whale, but a man unaccustomed to frittering away even a millisecond of his valuable time soon had a better idea. He sat still as a yogi and willed himself into a transcendental state. Just before he lost consciousness, he spied the harbor of New Bedford, and soon thereafter his senses were assaulted with the stench of an ocean positively brimming with whales. Time passed and when Trump finally stirred again, he noted that lengthening late afternoon shadows were falling over Central Park and that the weird whale smell had almost completely disappeared. Suddenly he knew just what to do. As Trump put the Melville books back on the shelf, his eyes fell for a moment on another book, Jules Verne’s From the Earth to the Moon. Trump beamed. First the caves, and now this. Trump couldn’t believe his good fortune. Most men got one good idea their whole life if they were lucky. Good ideas were just elbowing each other for attention in Trump’s brain. Where some men just saw lettering on a book’s spine, Trump saw his whole life stretched out before him. He truly was the luckiest and smartest man on this wildly spinning sphere.
He called his pal Donny and hastily arranged a meeting. As his limo sped the three blocks to Central Park, Trump made a flurry of phone calls and a fistful of business deals that would have taken a mere mortal months to transact. Trump finally felt in control again. With darkness descending on the city, Donald and Donny wandered around the park with nary a second glance from formerly curious New Yorkers. They waxed rhapsodic about what a forgotten pleasure the park was and how they’d have to do it again soon, their laughs saying, “Yeah, sure, in a million years!”
His empire in ruins and his brand hopelessly tarnished, Donald J. Trump seemed in surprisingly good spirits. Thinking he would have to console him, Donny was prepared to cheer up his best pal by telling him he could get in on the ground floor on Unbranding, then make a seamless segue to Rebranding. Deutsch was surprised to find that it was Trump though that was doing the reassuring. “I know how to solve my problem,” Trump said confidently. “I sat down to search my soul. Nothing. Then I asked myself what the great Khan would do. Unfortunately, everything carried jail time. That’s when I hit upon the answer. I’ll do a talk show and I can reinvent my brand — make it stronger than it ever was.” Then he glanced over at his favorite pal and said generously, “I was going to call it Tea With Trump, but I changed my mind. We’ll do the show together. Let’s call it The Two Dons.”
Before Deutsch could let loose with one of his million dollar smiles, Trump fixed him with a steely glare that would have made a Mongol warrior’s heart turn to ice. “And then I’m gonna harpoon every last one of those sons-of-bitches that stole my name!” With that, a cheshire grin spread across Trump’s face and he wordlessly pointed up at a full moon that hung so low in the sky it looked like you could almost touch it. The earth seemed to stand still for a moment, then wobble a bit on its axis. “I just bought a billion acres, and closed a deal with Richard Branson to take me up. I’ll be breaking ground before the new loser is in the White House. President? Who wants to be President? I can be Emperor of the Moon! ” And with that, Trump let loose with one of his trademark smiles, a smile that lit up the night sky like …. well, like a thousand, million, billion klieg lights. Why, it was reportedly so bright that even the Man in the Moon winced.

Governor Christie takes over my private beach

https://external-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=AQA5dd4w_4lErpfn&w=526&h=296&url=https%3A%2F%2Fstatic01.nyt.com%2Fimages%2F2017%2F07%2F03%2Fnyregion%2F03njbudget-promo%2F03njbudget-alt-facebookJumbo.jpg&cfs=1&upscale=1&_nc_hash=AQD-WsqVVAOSqYtf

Adolescent boys playing some variation of TAG

Grandpa Robert Tindall--a cordwinder

1737-1806--South Carolina.
Did you all know what his occupation was?