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Dave Hogg
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Downtown Royal Oak, where global marches for elephants and rhinos just happen on a fall Sunday afternoon.
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10/4/15
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Detroit is serious about preventing wildfires.
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Really disgusted that the Fourth Reich Motorcycle Club in Madison Heights, Michigan got submitted and accepted as a portal, especially since the submitter disguised it as "FRMC" and didn't bother to show the Nazi insiginia painted on the building.

I don't ever think I would want a badge badly enough to do that.

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Royal Oak swimmin' hole.
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An empty elf hole means that hibernation season is over and spring has arrived.
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To Terry's surprise, Binky stopped, not in a field of darkness, but in a brightly lit square in a slightly shabby city.

"This is it?"

"WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU GO?"

"But isn't this..."

"YES. YOUR HOME. COME, SMALL HUMANS. THIS MAN WILL TELL YOU A STORY."

Terry slid off the horse, feeling young and strong and with a mind so sharp that it almost cut itself thinking.

As the children gathered, he began to tell them a story about a strange, magical world, shaped like a ball. One story turned into dozens, and a few minutes turned into hours. He was vaguely aware that the crowd had gotten bigger, but he didn't realize the size until someone handed him a glass of water.

He looked up as he sipped, and saw the square teeming with people. Most were kids, but there were others. Carrot sat among the smallest kids, looming over them, and Angua lounged on a bench behind him. To one side, Sacharissa Cripslock scribbled in her notebook. Detritus became a wall behind the crowd, with Cheri Littlebottom watching from his shade.

And, tucked away in a dark corner, Terry saw Moist von Lipwig. As their eyes met, Moist tipped his cap -- a tiny gesture that spoke volumes about the respect given when one master storyteller recognizes another.

Terry nodded back, smiled and went back to his stories.

#RIP #TerryPratchett

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Baby makes three.
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