Louisville Quotes

Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home and drop bombs and bullets on Brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs and denied simple human rights? No I’m not going 10,000 miles from home to help murder and burn another poor nation simply to continue the domination of white slave masters of the darker people the world over. This is the day when such evils must come to an end. I have been warned that to take such a stand would cost me millions of dollars. But I have said it once and I will say it again. The real enemy of my people is here. I will not disgrace my religion, my people or myself by becoming a tool to enslave those who are fighting for their own justice, freedom and equality. If I thought the war was going to bring freedom and equality to 22 million of my people they wouldn’t have to draft me, I’d join tomorrow. I have nothing to lose by standing up for my beliefs. So I’ll go to jail, so what? We’ve been in jail for 400 years.

And he don't know...that I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up 4 wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seats. I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights, slashed a hole in all 4 tires...Maybe, next time he'll think before he cheats.

She was seriously staring. Which was what you did when you got a gander at a man who is hung like a Louisville Slugger.

DIE!” Gleeson Hedge dropped directly behind Orion, smacking his baseball bat over the giant’s head so hard the Louisville Slugger cracked in half.

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world. . . . This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud. . . . I have the immense joy of being man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now that I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun. Then it was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed. . . . But this cannot be seen, only believed and ‘understood’ by a peculiar gift.

Jolly Jay rested the Louisville Slugger on his shoulder, as if he were Thor or some other god-like warrior who had come down from the heavens to our Deus ex machina rescue.

He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy's house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.

Louisville, an hour after dark, is a carpet of gilt thumbtacks below them, with straight, twinkling lines like strings of beads leading out from it. Southeastward now, toward the Tennessee state-line. ("Jane Brown's Body")

Separate but Not Equal The only places on earth not to provide free public education are communist China, North Vietnam, Sarawak, Singapore, British Honduras—and Prince Edward County, Virginia. —US ATTORNEY GENERAL ROBERT F. KENNEDY, MARCH 19, 1963, LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY

Man, all the time somebody is telling me, ‘Cassius, you know I’m the one who made you.’ I know some guys in Louisville who used to give me a lift to the gym in their car when my motor scooter was broke down. Now they’re trying to tell me they made me, and how not to forget them when I get rich. And my daddy, he tickles me. He says, ‘Don’t listen to the others, boy; I made you.’ He says he made me because he fed me vegetable soup and steak when I was a baby, going without shoes to pay the food bill. Well, he’s my father and I guess more teenagers ought to realize what they owe their folks. But listen here. When you want to talk about who made me, you talk to me. Who made me is me.”3

I have a kitten.” He said for lack of anything else and hoping it would stop her from hitting him full on with her Louisville Slugger.

The summer of my fifteenth birthday, my family had to move to Louisville.

Since 2011, the Campaign for Black Male Achievement (CBMA) has organized and facilitated an annual intergenerational gathering at the Muhammad Ali Center in Louisville, Kentucky,

I believe I will see my mother again. I expect to again hear those familiar words, 'Oh, Honey, I'm so glad you've come.' I am not alone in entertaining such thoughts. When Kirk Douglas was hospitalized after a massive stroke, he wondered, 'Could I see my mother again? I would like that.' I have read and reread his words, 'Oh, how I would like to thank her for all of the things that I never thanked her for.' Just as my mother took my hand as a child and led me on the big adventure of exploring downtown Louisville, on some distant day, she will again take my hand, and lead me on the big adventure of exploring heaven. In the language of the Eternal Town I will, at last, find adequate words to thank her for loving me so lavishly.

I went back to one of the motels, went into the office, turned on the light, picked a key off the desk and located a cabin by myself. The next morning it took me 20 minutes to find somebody to pay—and then I was told I wouldn’t be welcome there in the future because my car had a license plate from Louisville. They don’t care much for city boys, specially when they’re roamin’ around late at night.

Back in Louisville, that high wet smell coupled with the uncomfortable prickling heat meant that a twister was on the way, crossing the flat cropland with a destructive fury that was out to ruin lives. We were in the East, however, and we had other ways to ruin our lives.

From that age until seventeen I did all the work done with horses, such as breaking up the land, furrowing, ploughing corn and potatoes, bringing in the crops when harvested, hauling all the wood, besides tending two or three horses, a cow or two, and sawing wood for stoves, etc., while still attending school. For this I was compensated by the fact that there was never any scolding or punishing by my parents; no objection to rational enjoyments, such as fishing, going to the creek a mile away to swim in summer, taking a horse and visiting my grandparents in the adjoining county, fifteen miles off, skating on the ice in winter, or taking a horse and sleigh when there was snow on the ground. While still quite young I had visited Cincinnati, forty-five miles away, several times, alone; also Maysville, Kentucky, often, and once Louisville. The journey to Louisville was a big one for a boy of that day. I had also gone once with a two-horse carriage to Chilicothe, about seventy miles, with a neighbor’s family, who were removing to Toledo, Ohio, and returned alone; and had gone once, in like manner, to Flat Rock, Kentucky, about seventy miles away. On this latter occasion I was fifteen years of age.

Any movement that seeks to end police violence has no choice but to work to undo the racism and ableism and audism which, together, make Black Disabled/Deaf people prime targets for police violence. For instance, Darnell T. Wicker, a Black deaf veteran, was killed by police officers in Louisville, Kentucky, on August 8, 2016 (note that the lowercase d indicates that Darnell Wicker was deaf, not culturally Deaf). Body camera footage shows officers shooting Darnell Wicker multiple times within one to two seconds of issuing verbal orders on a dark night. However, Darnell Wicker relied on speech-reading to communicate.

The Bible forbids dabbling in those kinds of things.” “You knocked my shield spell down with a freaking baseball bat, man. That thing's tough enough to stop cars, and you're strong enough to drop it with a Louisville Slugger. You can sense 'evil' from people, and that ain't magick?” “Well, no,” he said, but his voice wasn't as confident as it was before.

CAPT. J. W. SIMMONS, master of the steamship Pensacola, had just as little regard for weather as the Louisiana’s Captain Halsey. He was a veteran of eight hundred trips across the Gulf and commanded a staunch and sturdy ship, a 1,069-ton steel-hulled screw-driven steam freighter built twelve years earlier in West Hartlepool, England, and now owned by the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Company. Friday morning the ship was docked at the north end of 34th Street, in the company of scores of other ships, including the big Mallory liner Alamo, at 2,237 tons, and the usual large complement of British ships, which on Friday included the Comino, Hilarius, Kendal Castle, Mexican, Norna, Red Cross, Taunton, and the stately Roma in from Boston with its Captain Storms. As the Pensacola’s twenty-one-man crew readied the ship for its voyage to the city of Pensacola on Florida’s Gulf Coast, two men came aboard as Captain Simmons’s personal guests: a harbor pilot named R. T. Carroll and Galveston’s Pilot Commissioner J. M. O. Menard, from one of the city’s oldest families. At

There have always been Southern whites who, at great risk, pioneered in the movement for racial justice. I was lucky to know some of them: Myles Horton, founder of the Highlander Folk School in Tennessee; Carl and Anne Braden, editors of the Southern Courier in Louisville, Kentucky; Pat Watters and Margaret Long, journalists with the Atlanta Constitution; reporters Fred Powledge and Jack Nelson.

Father was pretty good on the telephone; he counted the holes. Even so, Father still got a lot of wrong numbers, and they made him so cross that he invariably shouted to the persons on the receiving end of his calls—as if the wrong numbers had been their fault. “Jesus God!” he would holler. “You’re the wrong number!” Thus, in this small way, did my Father and his Louisville Slugger terrorize a portion of New York.

Who knew that specialty food producers from bastions of Americana as Gainesville, Florida, and Louisville, Kentucky, had begun to experiment with artisanal soy sauce? According to a prominent food magazine, the Kentucky producer even aged its sauce in old bourbon barrels for an added whiff of smoke and local color. Top chefs all over America were raving about the depth of flavor the smoky sauce brought to dry-aged filet mignon and buttery black cod. An avant-garde chef in Chicago had infused the soy sauce into butter. The resulting concoction was spread on bite-sized brioche, topped with tobiko caviar, and served as the amuse bouche to his seventeen-course tasting menu.

Sooner or later the world must burn, and all things in it—all the books, the cloister together with the brothel, Fra Angelico together with the Lucky Strike ads which I haven’t seen for seven years because I don’t remember seeing one in Louisville. Sooner or later it will all be consumed by fire and nobody will be left—for by that time the last man in the universe will have discovered the bomb capable of destroying the universe and will have been unable to resist the temptation to throw the thing and get it over with. And here I sit writing a diary. But love laughs at the end of the world because love is the door to eternity and he who loves God is playing on the doorstep of eternity, and before anything can happen love will have drawn him over the sill and closed the door and he won’t bother about the world burning because he will know nothing but love.

He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy's house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty. He left feeling that if he had searched harder he might have found her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street. The track curved and now it was going away from the sun which, as it sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.

What if she had already done it to herself? What if she had shaved away from the surface of her brain whatever synaptic interlacings had formed her gift? She remembered reading somewhere that some pop artist once bought an original drawing by Michelangelo—and had taken a piece of art gum and erased it, leaving blank paper. The waste had shocked her. Now she felt a similar shock as she imagined the surface of her own brain with the talent for chess wiped away. At home she tried a Russian game book, but she couldn’t concentrate. She started going through her game with Foster, setting the board up in the kitchen, but the moves of it were too painful. That damned Stonewall, and the hastily pushed pawn. A patzer’s move. Bad chess. Hungover chess. The telephone rang, but she didn’t answer. She sat at the board and wished for a moment, painfully, that she had someone to call. Harry Beltik would be back in Louisville. And she didn’t want to tell him about the game with Foster. He would find out soon enough. She could call Benny. But Benny had been icy after Paris, and she did not want to talk to him. There was no one else. She got up wearily and opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator, took down a bottle of white wine and poured herself a glassful. A voice inside her cried out at the outrage, but she ignored it. She drank half of it in one long swallow and stood waiting until she could feel it. Then she finished the glass and poured another. A person could live without chess. Most people did. When she awoke on the sofa the next morning, still wearing the Paris clothes she had worn when losing the game to Foster, she was frightened in a new way. She could sense her brain being physically blurred by alcohol, its positional grasp gone clumsy, its penetration clouded. But after breakfast she showered and changed and then poured herself a glass of wine. It was almost mechanical; she had learned to cut off thought as she did it. The main thing was to eat some toast first, so the wine wouldn’t burn her stomach. She kept drinking for days, but the memory of the game she had lost and the fear of what she was doing to the sharp edge of her gift would not go away, except when she was so drunk that she could not even think. There was a piece in the Sunday paper about her, with one of the pictures taken that morning at the high school, and a headline reading CHESS CHAMP DROPS FROM TOURNEY. She threw the paper away without reading the article. Then one morning after a night of dark and confusing dreams she awoke with an unaccustomed clarity: if she did not stop drinking immediately she would ruin what she had. She had allowed herself to sink into this frightening murk. She had to find a foothold somewhere to push herself free of it. She would have to get help.

Stuart Williams, a scientist at the Cardiovascular Innovation Institute in Louisville, Kentucky, is experimenting with taking fat-derived cells extracted during liposuction and mixing them with glue to print a heart. Williams believes that a 3D-printed “bioficial” heart may be possible in ten years.

Being in the middle of the region's largest superhuman hub had its advantages. Louisville boasted a variety of services made possible only by the advent of the Next. Common abilities such as super speed and flight made delivering goods all over the city cheap and competitive. The morning donuts were usually brought to the facility by a man who could run at just below the speed of sound.

George Rogers Clark (1752-1818) was the highest ranking military officer on the western frontier in the American Revolution.  He was also the brother of famed Freemason William Clark (of the Lewis and Clark expedition).  A Freemason, George Rogers Clark's Lodge is unknown, but Abraham Lodge 8, Louisville conducted his Masonic funeral.  In 1809, at age 57, Brother Clark suffered a stroke and fell into a fireplace, burning his leg so badly it required amputation. When Dr. Richard Ferguson, Master of Abraham Lodge, performed the amputation, the only anesthetic Brother Clark received  was music from a fife and drum corps playing in the background.

Oh, I’ve had my moments, and if I had to do it over again, I’d have more of them. In fact, I’d try to have nothing else. Just moments, one after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day. —NADINE STAIR, EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS OLD, LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY

Still it is very important for us to call upon him: First, that our hearts may be fired with a zealous and burning desire ever to seek, love, and serve him, while we become accustomed in every need to flee to him as to a sacred anchor. Secondly, that there may enter our hearts no desire and no wish at all of which we should be ashamed to make him a witness, while we learn to set all our wishes before his eyes, and even to pour out our whole hearts. Thirdly, that we be prepared to receive his benefits with true gratitude of heart and thanksgiving, benefits that our prayer reminds us come from his hand. (Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, trans. Ford Lewis Battles, ed. John T. McNeill [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1960], Book 3, chapter 20, section 3.)

POLITICS, MARKETS, AND SLAVE PRICES The price of slaves was a pervasive center of attention in the antebellum South. Slave prices were a common topic of everyday conversation and a frequent object of discussion in southern newspapers. Protecting the value of slaveholdings dominated judicial rulings in estate settlements, liability cases, and other areas of the law. References to the enormous aggregate dollar value of slave property were a standard feature of proslavery political rhetoric. For example, fire-eater William Lowndes Yancey exclaimed to a Louisville audience on the eve of the 1860 presidential election: “Again: Look at the value of that property. These slaves are worth, according to Virginia prices $2800,000,000 … Twenty-eight hundred millions of dollars are to be affected by the decision of this question.

The next few days went by in a sweat-stained blur, and not just because summer had really hit and turned the heat up a notch. Dexter was in a true dither, an all-time, all-star, all-out tizzy of near panic. I was jumpy, distracted, unable to focus on anything except the thought that someone I didn’t know was coming my way to do Something I couldn’t possibly prepare for. I had to be watchful, ready for anything—but how? What? Where would it come from, and when? How could I know what to do when I didn’t know when, why, and to whom I would do it? And yet, I had to be ready for it every moment of every day, waking and sleeping. It was an impossible task, and it had all my wheels spinning furiously without actually moving me anywhere but deeper into a funk. In my feverish paranoia, every step I heard was Him, sneaking up behind me with bad intentions and a Louisville Slugger. Even

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For example, political scientist Manning Marable said of conservative Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, “Ethnically, Thomas has ceased to be an African American.” Columnist Carl Rowan of the Washington Post wrote of black economist Thomas Sowell, “Vidkun Quisling in his collaboration with the Nazis surely did not do as much damage as Sowell is doing.” And Spike Lee said that Michael Williams, a black appointee in the Bush administration, was such a traitor to his race that he deserved to be “dragged into an alley and beaten with a Louisville slugger.”39

But, someone will say, does God not know, even without being reminded, both in what respect we are troubled and what is expedient for us, so that it may seem in a sense superfluous that he should be stirred up by our prayers-as if he were drowsily blinking or even sleeping until he is aroused by our voice? But they who thus reason do not observe to what end the Lord instructed his people to pray, for he ordained it not so much for his own sake as for ours. Now he wills-as is right-that his due be rendered to him, in the recognition that everything men desire and account conducive to their own profit comes from him, and in the attestation of this by prayers. But the profit of this sacrifice also, by which he is worshiped, returns to us. Accordingly, the holy fathers, the more confidently they extolled God's benefits among themselves and others, were the more keenly aroused to pray ... Still it is very important for us to call upon him: First, that our hearts may be fired with a zealous and burning desire ever to seek, love, and serve him, while we become accustomed in every need to flee to him as to a sacred anchor. Secondly, that there may enter our hearts no desire and no wish at all of which we should be ashamed to make him a witness, while we learn to set all our wishes before his eyes, and even to pour out our whole hearts. Thirdly, that we be prepared to receive his benefits with true gratitude of heart and thanksgiving, benefits that our prayer reminds us come from his hand. (Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, trans. Ford Lewis Battles, ed. John T. McNeill [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1960], Book 3, chapter 20, section 3.)

first case with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, and it took us to Salt Lick, Kentucky. The discovery was made this morning, and we were briefed and flown out from Quantico to the Louisville field office where we picked up a couple of SUVs. We drove from there and got here about four in the afternoon. We were in a bunker illuminated by portable lights brought in by the local investigative team. A series of four tunnels spread out as a root system beneath a house the size of a mobile trailer and extended under an abandoned cornfield. A doorway in the cellar of

The new perspective on Paul – not that there is any single thing which can now be called by that name, despite the ambitious title of Jimmy Dunn’s collection of related articles 1 – has burst in, like the delightful Goldilocks, to disrupt the peaceful scene where the Three Reformation Bears were planning to have an undisturbed breakfast. She has sat on the chair of traditional justification-theology, and it now seems to be broken (though they have called in the carpenters from Louisville, Sydney and elsewhere to try to fix it).

Such violence in Kentucky did not end in the 1950s. In 1985, Robert and Martha Marshall bought a home in Sylvania, another suburb of Louisville that had remained exclusively white. Their house was firebombed on the night they moved in. A month later, a second arson attack destroyed the house, a few hours before a Ku Klux Klan meeting at which a speaker boasted that no African Americans would be permitted to live in Sylvania. The Marshall family then sued a county police officer who had been identified as a member of the Klan. The officer testified that about half of the forty Klan members known to him were also in the police department and that his superiors condoned officers’ Klan membership, as long as the information did not become public.

In 1917, the Supreme Court overturned the racial zoning ordinance of Louisville, Kentucky, where many neighborhoods included both races before twentieth-century segregation. The case, Buchanan v. Warley, involved an African American’s attempt to purchase property on an integrated block where there were already two black and eight white households. The Court majority was enamored of the idea that the central purpose of the Fourteenth Amendment was not to protect the rights of freed slaves but a business rule: “freedom of contract.” Relying on this interpretation, the Court had struck down minimum wage and workplace safety laws on the grounds that they interfered with the right of workers and business owners to negotiate individual employment conditions without government interference. Similarly, the Court ruled that racial zoning ordinances interfered with the right of a property owner to sell to whoever he pleased.

BACK IN THE WORLD, I FELT LIKE A MAN THAT HAD COME down from the rare atmosphere of a very high mountain. When I got to Louisville, I had already been up for four hours or so, and my day was getting on towards its noon, so to speak, but I found that everybody else was just getting up and having breakfast and going to work. And how strange it was to see people walking around as if they had some­ thing important to do, running after busses, reading the newspapers, lighting cigarettes. How futile all their haste and anxiety seemed.

Clay’s quick, light boxing style – ‘float like a butterfly, sting like a bee’ – was deemed inadequate to beat Liston. The night before the fight, Harvey Jones, the sparring partner of the young man already known as the ‘Louisville Lip’, presented a poem by Clay. Clay comes out to meet Liston and Liston starts to retreat, If Liston goes back an inch farther he'll end up in a ringside seat. Clay swings with a left, Clay swings with a right, Just look at young Cassius carry the fight. Liston keeps backing but there's not enough room, It's a matter of time until Clay lowers the boom. Then Clay lands with a right, what a beautiful swing, And the punch raised the bear clear out of the ring. Liston still rising and the ref wears a frown, But he can't start counting until Sonny comes down. Now Liston disappears from view, the crowd is getting frantic But our radar stations have picked him up somewhere over the Atlantic. Who on Earth thought, when they came to the fight, That they would witness the launching of a human satellite. Hence the crowd did not dream, when they laid down their money, That they would see a total eclipse of Sonny.

Air Conditioning Repair Louisville| HVAC | Heating and Cooling “It may not take too long for split air conditioners to cool the room, but a dirty air filter or a blocked condensate drain may be the reason, even if it is left on for hours if there is no proper cooling. The AC is shielded by air filters from dust in the air. It may be simple to clean an air filter in a window AC, but you will need assistance from a split AC professional. Air filters accumulate dust and debris drawn into the ducts, and they remain clogged and impact the cooling process if they are not cleaned regularly. We recommend having the air conditioner serviced twice a year for increased performance and to avoid any problems during summers.Ice formation around the coils or a dirty outdoor compressor for which a professional would need assistance may be another possible reason for the lack of cooling. If the air conditioner does not cool properly, the coolant will be low as well. This either means that it has been undercharged, or that there is a gas leak in the split air conditioner. This is a more common problem for people living around coastal regions or anywhere close to waste water, where air pollution is high.Another potential explanation for the lack of cooling could be ice formation around the coils or a dirty outdoor compressor for which a specialist may need assistance. The coolant will also be poor if the air conditioner does not cool correctly. This either suggests that it has been undercharged, or that the split air conditioner has a gas leak. For people living around coastal regions or anywhere close to waste water, where air pollution is high, this is a more common concern.You can, however, avoid costly AC repairs with regular maintenance and keep your AC running at optimum performance. It is a warning of a burned cable, a faulty starting capacitor or a defective compressor itself when the compressor stops working. In this case, you will need to clean the condenser coil, inspect the capacitor and repair the compressor if it is found to be faulty. When the air conditioner starts to turn on and off, before you get it serviced, it is better to turn it off. Most possibly, the evaporator is dirty and the condenser is dirty or blocked.A dirty filter restricts airflow and reduced airflow creates further problems, like a frozen evaporator coil. Before and after summer, in particular, it is important to adjust the air filter for better cooling and overall performance. To see if the timer function has been turned on and altered accordingly, double check your thermostat settings. ac companies near me heating and cooling near me #acpowerLouisville#AcpowerLouisville#airconditioning#hvac #hvaclife #ac #airconditioner #heating #hvacservice #cooling #hvactechnician #hvactech #heatingandcooling #hvacrepair #refrigeration #plumbing #hvacr #hvacinstall #maintenance #furnace #hvaccontractor #aircon #service #acrepair #hvacquality #hvactools #airconditioningrepair #hvaclove#ACRepairNearBy #ACTechnician #HVAC #Heating&Cooling #FurnanceRepai

In your struggle for freedom, justice and equality, I am with you,’ said Ali. ‘I came to Louisville because I could not remain silent while my own people, many I grew up with, many I went to school with, many my blood relatives, were being beaten, stomped and kicked in the streets simply because they want freedom, and justice and equality in housing.

But revocation was not enough for the betrayed Georgians. They needed to actually set fire to the prior act: The feeling of the Legislature was so strong, that, after the Yazoo act had been repealed, it was decided to destroy all the records and documents relating to the corruption. By order of the two Houses a fire was kindled in the public square of Louisville, which was then the capital. The enrolled act that had been secured by fraud was brought out by the secretary of state, and by him delivered to the President of the Senate for examination. That officer delivered the act to the Speaker of the House. The Speaker in turn passed it to the clerk, who read the title of the act and the other records, and then, committing them to the flames, cried out in a loud voice, “God save the State and preserve her rights, and may every attempt to injure them perish as these wicked and corrupt acts now do!”8

The first zombie reached BT and met a blissful exit from this world courtesy of a Louisville Slugger, the preferred choice of zombie slayers nationwide.

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The distinction between segregation by state action and racial imbalance caused by other factors has been central to our jurisprudence. . . . Where [racial imbalance] is a product not of state action but of private choices, it does not have constitutional implications.” Because neighborhoods in Louisville and Seattle had been segregated by private choices, he concluded, school districts should be prohibited from taking purposeful action to reverse their own resulting segregation. Chief Justice Roberts himself was quoting from a 1992 opinion by Justice Anthony Kennedy in a case involving school segregation in Georgia. In that opinion Justice Kennedy wrote: “[V]estiges of past segregation by state decree do remain in our society and in our schools. Past wrongs to the black race, wrongs committed by the State and in its name, are a stubborn fact of history. And stubborn facts of history linger and persist. But though we cannot escape our history, neither must we overstate its consequences in fixing legal responsibilities. The vestiges of segregation . . . may be subtle and intangible but nonetheless they must be so real that they have a causal link to the de jure violation being remedied. It is simply not always the case that demographic forces causing population change bear any real and substantial relation to a de jure violation.” The following pages will refute this too-comfortable notion, expressed by Justice Kennedy and endorsed by Chief Justice Roberts and his colleagues, that wrongs committed by the state have little causal link to the residential segregation we see around us.

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In 1917, the Supreme Court overturned the racial zoning ordinance of Louisville, Kentucky, where many neighborhoods included both races before twentieth-century segregation. The case, Buchanan v. Warley, involved an African American’s attempt to purchase property on an integrated block where there were already two black and eight white households. The Court majority was enamored of the idea that the central purpose of the Fourteenth Amendment was not to protect the rights of freed slaves but a business rule: “freedom of contract.” Relying on this interpretation, the Court had struck down minimum wage and workplace safety laws on the grounds that they interfered with the right of workers and business owners to negotiate individual employment conditions without government interference. Similarly, the Court ruled that racial zoning ordinances interfered with the right of a property owner to sell to whomever he pleased.

Poster Boy starts laughing. “You know we’re all going to start calling you Tampon now, right? What a way to earn your road name. Fuck, I can’t believe it. You offered the Pres’s ol’ lady your fucking tampon…

Yes, I fucking know you better than him because you were never his, you’ve always been mine!

Allie tried to ask me once why we call him Horse. I explained it’s because of his laugh. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna tell her it’s because of the huge fucking horse cock he’s got swingin’ between his legs.

We know our own people; we know each teacher by name; we know the minister, the doctor, the lawyer, the merchant and most of the others who frequent our libraries. Those of another race cannot know our wants, our habits, our likes and our dislikes as we do...However much they might try it would be impossible for them to give us the service that one of our own race can give in an atmosphere where service and freedom are the predominant elements; and this is surely the condition in the colored branches in Louisville.

So here I am tonight. I’ve followed him from his small house to his round of singles bars and finally to the apartment complex where the woman lives. The one he picked up in the last bar. He’s got to come out sometime. I’ve got the Louisville Slugger laid across my lap and the Cubs cap cinched in place. I won’t put the shades on until I see him. No sense straining my eyes. Not at my age. I miss Ralph. About now he’d be working himself up doing his best Clint Eastwood and trying to dazzle me with all his bad cop stories. I’m pretty sure I can handle this, but even if it works out all right, it’s still flying solo. And let me tell you, flying solo can get to be pretty dammed lonely.

He read of Lincoln's second inaugural address and of the broad peace Lincoln hoped to gain, and, a page later, he read of the bullet that had slain Lincoln on Good Friday evening in 1865. He clicked his tongue between his teeth at the thought of a President dying at an assassin's hands. Then, all at once, he shivered as if suddenly seized by an ague. He had seen Lincoln in Louisville that Good Friday, had listened to him plead without avail for Kentucky to stay in the Union, had even spoken with him. He shivered again. In defeat in the world he knew, Lincoln had wanted to martyr himself for the United States. In the other world, where there was no need for it, he had been made a martyr in the hour of his greatest triumph.

just a stone’s throw one from th’other. But whereas Esther shared her life with twelve siblings brung up on a sprawling family farm, Billy Coyle was an only child brung up down in a holler just north of Brambleberry. And whereas Esther’s daddy raised tobacco and bootlegged moonshine, Billy’s daddy dug graves. That’s how Billy had come to take up a job in the morgue at Louisville

At the MORE Center, a Louisville clinic set up to handle pain-pill and heroin addicts, patients started coming in on meth, too—a trickle in 2016, then, within a year, a torrent. Before the Prieto-Greenhill connection, only two of counselor Jennifer Grzesik’s patients were using meth. Within three years, almost 90 percent of new patients coming to the opiate addiction clinic had meth in their drug screen, too. Twenty percent of her clients are now homeless. “I don’t remember having any homeless people in my caseload before 2016,” she told me.

his desk, reading the paper. He looked like he had gotten eight hours of sound sleep and spent the last hour at the gym. Recruiting poster. He set his paper aside and asked if we were OK, that we looked a little under the weather. When we replied that we were fine, he said, “OK, get to work.” The bar scene was never mentioned again. Jim eventually became so depressed, he decided to volunteer for another tour in Vietnam. However, he only had months to serve, and the army refused to deploy him. Jim found a way. He got into his Olds 4-4-2 and headed toward Louisville. Between Ft. Knox and Louisville was the small town of West Point. It occupied the southeastern bank of the Ohio River and was a notorious speed trap. Local residents claimed that the majority of the municipal budget was covered by speeding fines collected from the Ft. Knox troops. Jim ran through the northbound radar trap in excess of 100 mph. After the policeman wrote him up for reckless driving, Jim turned around and ran through the southbound speed trap at 110. He was arrested immediately. When it came time for his disciplinary process, he was busted back to E-4.

Hunter was one of those “dropouts,” raised in Louisville, Kentucky, who had arrived in the late sixties after writing gigs in Puerto Rico, Brazil, Big Sur, and San Francisco.

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a Louisville Slugger is simultaneously a thing of beauty and a thing of purpose.

Many of us are like James Joyce’s Mr. Duffy who “lived a short distance from his body.” In fact, we may live some distance from our bodies, and it can take enormous effort to get back in touch with our five senses. In trying, we often go overboard and get destructive with our bodies or what we put into them. …An unexpected pratfall is sometimes the way our “earthiness” is revealed to us. Jung once spoke of this experience as a pilgrimage back down out of the clouds into our bodies. He writes of having to climb back down to the earth to accept that the little clod of earth that he was. This wasn’t self-negation but true humility. The monk Thomas Merton records having a similar experience in a crosswalk in Louisville. He jumped for joy when he realized that he was like everybody else-a human being, a creature in solidarity with all creation. But not everybody jumps for joy at that realization. One reason we may try to ignore the senses or zonk out with excess is that our bodies remind us of our extreme vulnerability. The gift of life can be taken away so suddenly and unexpectedly. Holding this awareness rescues us from the danger of imagining that we are morally self-sufficient or excellent. Celebrating our vulnerability and finitude places our fears and dreads where they belong-not at the center of life but at its edge. We are closer to the mystery at the heart of things, to which the proper response is gratitude.

The Cabbage Patch of the Alice Hegan Rice novel was taken from a real slum in Louisville, Ky. Mrs. Wiggs was described as “a friend of every neighbor; always first to forget herself and lend a helping hand.

Louisville Slugger.

That was the last straw. Now innocent kids were being dragged into Cheryl’s problem. Finally the dean agreed to call Cheryl’s mother in Louisville. He told her the entire story: Barbara was afraid she’d find Cheryl dead from an overdose one day. They both told the mother that Cheryl needed to be put in a drug rehab program back in Kentucky. The mother responded, “Why Kentucky? Isn’t there a rehab program in Illinois you could send her to?” The dean shouted, “She’s YOUR daughter!” “Oh, okay,” the mother said.

at a Jewish synagogue in Pittsburgh in the worst anti-Semitic attack on U.S. soil. Outside Louisville, Kentucky, a man attempted a similar assault on a black church, yanking the locked doors to try to break in and shoot parishioners at their Bible study. Unable to pry the doors open, the man went to a nearby supermarket and killed the first black people he saw—a black woman in the parking lot headed in for groceries and a black man buying poster board with his grandson. An armed bystander happened to see the shooter in the parking lot, which got the shooter’s attention. “Don’t shoot me,” the shooter told the onlooker, “and I won’t shoot you,” according to news reports. “Whites don’t kill whites.

I knew exactly what was going on, but I unfortunately didn't have a firearm. (Adam have most likely offered someone 6000 Euros, to end this all, then and there. Tomas. 10%) Only a mini baseball bat. A Louisville Slugger. And Martina’s weapon of choice: a broom. The witches’ vehicle. Before I could tell him to go to Hell, a neighbor exited the building and let the stranger claiming to be from the gas company inside. Now the stranger dressed in black was running up the 94 stairs. I could hear his footsteps approaching. I didn't have time to react, grab the biggest knife from the kitchen, and stand by my entrance door. He was already upstairs, right outside my apartment door. He began knocking loudly and aggressively, whether with his metal ring or a lighter. I looked through the peephole, but he had covered it with a black folder, which I soon realized was an iPad. Covering his face. Covering my eyes. The same speech repeated played through the iPad, ensuring that I wouldn't recognize his voice and open the door. „I am from the gas company, looking for Tomas Adam Nyapi.” He kept playing in a prerecorded voice on the iPad outside my door, "Open up", "It's the gas company", and "We are looking for Tomas Adam Nyapi." I was trying to pay attention and make sense of it all, trying to figure out who it could be. But the Catalan girl couldn't keep quiet and yelled at the person in Spanish with her strong Catalan accent, after a minute or two: "Who are you and what do you want? Go away before I call the police!" Suddenly, the stranger began sprinting down the 94 stairs upon realizing that I wasn't alone. In case the reason for his visit wasn't clear enough. He was running so fast that he nearly stumbled, clearly determined to prevent me from catching up with him. I swung open my door and peered down the stairwell, straining my eyes to discern his identity, but the darkness obscured any details in the vertical tunnel below. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, I hurried to my loggia to catch a glimpse of him. He was tall and thin, with long legs, and his strides were hurried and distinct, unlike anyone else. Deep inside, I knew it was Mario Larese. Mister Twister. I recognized his movements, but it wasn't until 2023 that I had concrete confirmation. An evidence orgy. Mario had been sent to either spy on me or seek revenge for my closure of the club, with him being responsible for triggering the landslide, the avalanche. The mafia had dispatched Mario to finish what he/they had started. With Adam and the rest of them. Mario. Adam. Nico. Ferran. „The Beatles.” „Plus Yoko.” The Nazi junkies had sent him to deliver the final blow, the fatal shot, the kill. It was Mario who was accountable - the thief, the liar, the "Romanian gypsy." To deliver „The Final Solution”, to sever ties. And keep that 60,000 as well of course. Shortly after the stranger (Mario) had left our address Martina called me on the phone.

At six, Daisy slid the stuffed figs and the pastry-wrapped goat cheese purses into the oven, crammed her feet into a pair of navy-blue high heels, and put a giant straw hat with a navy-blue ribbon on her head. The theme of the party was the Kentucky Derby, even though the Derby itself wasn't until May. At least it had made the menu easy: mint julep punch and bourbon slushies, fried chicken sliders served on biscuits, with hot honey, tea sandwiches with Benedictine spread, bite-sized hot browns, the signature sandwich of Louisville, and miniature Derby pies for dessert.

In fact, it was a deeper version of the lesson I had been trying to teach to fellow fundraisers in Chicago. Listening to others and sharing mutual hopes and fears as Obama had done with us in Louisville was indeed effective, but it was not a tactic. It was not part of a strategy to multiply in order to win. That would have been the Pyramid mindset. Instead, listening and sharing and being open was the campaign. It was both the means and the end. A listening campaign for a listening government. The “how” was the “what.

Speech was given to man to disguise his thoughts. I burned that sentence on to my brain like Ted Williams’s name was burned on to my Louisville Slugger baseball bat.

Speech was given to man to disguise his thoughts. I burned that sentence on to my brain like Ted Williams’s name was burned on to my Louisville Slugger baseball bat. I was the one smiling now. Whoever this Voltaire guy was he threw a hard one right down the middle when he said that. I guess people were using words to keep you from knowing what they were thinking when Mr. Voltaire lived in France and they were sure doing it big time in Memphis in 1959.

you’d like to encounter more of Jim Woodford’s story, we encourage you to pick up a copy of his book Heaven, an Unexpected Journey: One Man’s Experience with Heaven, Angels, and the Afterlife (Destiny Image, 2017). You can also connect with Jim at JimWoodfordMinistries.com. THREE LUNG TRANSPLANT RECIPIENT MIKE OLSEN DIED AND MET HIS ORGAN DONOR IN HEAVEN MEET MIKE OLSEN Louisville, Kentucky pastor Mike Olsen suffered for several years with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that kills almost as many patients as breast cancer. Mike was relieved when he received a call from the doctor letting him know that they had received a pair

Here are a few notable things that can spark inflammation and depress the function of your liver: Alcohol overload—This is relatively well-known. Your liver is largely responsible for metabolizing alcohol, and drinking too much liquid courage can send your liver running to cry in a corner somewhere. Carbohydrate bombardment—Starches and sugar have the fastest ability to drive up blood glucose, liver glycogen, and liver fat storage (compared to their protein and fat macronutrient counterparts). Bringing in too many carbs, too often, can elicit a wildfire of fat accumulation. In fact, one of the most effective treatments for reversing NAFLD is reducing the intake of carbohydrates. A recent study conducted at KTH Royal Institute of Technology and published in the journal Cell Metabolism had overweight test subjects with high levels of liver fat reduce their ratio of carbohydrate intake (without reducing calories!). After a short two-week study period the subjects showed “rapid and dramatic” reductions of liver fat and other cardiometabolic risk factors. Too many medications—Your liver is the top doc in charge of your body’s drug metabolism. When you hear about drug side effects on commercials, they are really a direct effect of how your liver is able to handle them. The goal is to work on your lifestyle factors so that you can be on as few medications as possible along with the help of your physician. Your liver will do its best to support you either way, but it will definitely feel happier without the additional burden. Too many supplements—There are several wonderful supplements that can be helpful for your health, but becoming an overzealous natural pill-popper might not be good for you either. In a program funded by the National Institutes of Health, it was found that liver injuries linked to supplement use jumped from 7 percent to 20 percent of all medication/supplement-induced injuries in just a ten-year time span. Again, this is not to say that the right supplements can’t be great for you. This merely points to the fact that your liver is also responsible for metabolism of all of the supplements you take as well. And popping a couple dozen different supplements each day can be a lot for your liver to handle. Plus, the supplement industry is largely unregulated, and the additives, fillers, and other questionable ingredients could add to the burden. Do your homework on where you get your supplements from, avoid taking too many, and focus on food first to meet your nutritional needs. Toxicants—According to researchers at the University of Louisville, more than 300 environmental chemicals, mostly pesticides, have been linked to fatty liver disease. Your liver is largely responsible for handling the weight of the toxicants (most of them newly invented) that we’re exposed to in our world today. Pesticides are inherently meant to be deadly, but just to small organisms (like pests), though it seems to be missed that you are actually made of small organisms, too (bacteria

But Jacobs does not seem to have any awareness of how severely the Kroegers’ arguments have been criticized by competent New Testament scholars. Compare Jacobs’s trust in the Kroegers’ writings to the scholarly analyses of Thomas Schreiner, Robert W. Yarbrough, Albert Wolters, and S. M. Baugh mentioned above. (Schreiner is professor of New Testament at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky; Yarbrough is chairman of the New Testament department at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School in Deerfield, Illinois; Wolters is professor of religion and theology/classical languages at Redeemer University College, Ancaster, Ontario, Canada; and Baugh is professor of New Testament at Westminster Theological Seminary in Escondido, California.) These New Testament scholars do not simply say they disagree with the Kroegers (for scholars will always differ in their interpretation of data), but they say that again and again the Kroegers are not even telling the truth about much of the historical data that they claim. But in spite of this widespread rejection of the Kroegers’ argument, evangelical leaders like Cindy Jacobs accept it as true.

On the right was a collection of mailboxes, maybe twenty, several of which Daron had met in a previous life with an aluminum Louisville slugger, as well as several blue boxes labeled COUNTY EXAMINER, a few of which had not recovered from their own interrogations, that local version of the great American pastime. D’aron, much to his credit, he’d once thought, was only blowing off steam, and never once—not even one time—cracked lip when the others asked, Who writes Gulls anyway, and when they get a letter, who reads it to them? He now wondered how much of his fear about coming back here was actually guilt, and how much of the guilt was fear—nothing was as it seemed.

In an era where detailed maps and especially aerial surveillance were scarce, the government carefully maintained redundant map sources far from the capital: The Army built a map depository in Omaha, Nebraska, the Navy maintained a hydrologic chart depository in Louisville, Kentucky, and the Air Force maintained an aeronautical chart library in St. Louis, Missouri. Such

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Who run the world? Women. Moms. Women run the world. I seriously would not be surprised to learn that gravity is just something that a grandma in Louisville has been handling, quietly, just in the back of her mind, while she makes biscuits for 400 people for the church jamboree.

On 10 December 1968, at a Red Cross centre near Bangkok, Thomas Merton gave a lecture affirming the place of the monastic as an outsider. ‘The monk is essentially someone who takes up a critical attitude toward the world and its structures,’ he remarked, ‘somebody who says, in one way or another, that the claims of the world are fraudulent.’ Afterward, he went back to his cottage to rest and to shower before a scheduled evening panel discussion. He emerged from his shower, walking with wet feet on a wet floor. It’s surmised that he reached for a fan, which was later shown to have faulty wiring, and suffered a fatal electric shock. Merton’s body was flown back to the US on an Air Force transport to Oakland, then sent on a commercial carrier to Louisville.

On the tour, Molina and Comings fell in love with a venue in Louisville where they played one of their best shows. And of course Molina, with his Hobbit-like appetite, especially loved the meal that came with it. He wrote in a postcard to Anne Grady, “We played at this entirely female run and owned place called the Sugar Doe and it was the best food. Here they say ‘do you want it stepped on or do you like lumpy oatmeal?”2

Testament Can Teach Us. San Francisco: HarperOne, 2011. Kugel, James L. How to Read the Bible: A Guide to Scripture, Then and Now. New York: Free Press, 2008. *———. Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as It Was at the Start of the Common Era. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998. Levenson, Jon D. Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994. ———. The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995. ———. Sinai and Zion: An Entry into the Jewish Bible. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1987. Levine, Amy-Jill, and Marc Zvi Brettler. The Jewish Annotated New Testament. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. *Miller, J. M., and J. H. Hayes. A History of Ancient Israel and Judah. Second edition. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2006. *Moore, Megan Bishop, and Brad E. Kell. Biblical History and Israel’s Past: The Changing Study of the Bible and

Baker, Sharon L. Razing Hell: Rethinking Everything You’ve Been Taught About God’s Wrath and Judgment. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2010. *Batto, Bernard. Slaying the Dragon: Mythmaking in the Biblical Tradition. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1992. Bell, Rob. Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell, and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived. San Francisco: HarperOne, 2011. Brettler, Marc Zvi, Peter Enns, and Daniel Harrington, SJ. The Bible and the Believer: Reading the Bible Critically and Religiously. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. *Brown, Raymond E., and Francis J. Moloney S.D.B. An Introduction to the Gospel of John. New York: Doubleday, 2003. Brueggemann, Walter. An Unsettling God: The Heart of the Hebrew Bible. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2009. *———. Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997.

Louisville, Kentucky).