#industrial lands in red hills

[galaxy-realty-chennai]

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[reasonsforhope]

"When considering the great victories of America’s conservationists, we tend to think of the sights and landscapes emblematic of the West, but there’s also a rich history of acknowledging the value of the wetlands of America’s south.

These include such vibrant ecosystems as the Everglades, the Great Dismal Swamp, the floodplains of the Congaree River, and “America’s Amazon” also known as the “Land Between the Rivers”—recently preserved forever thanks to generous donors and work by the Nature Conservancy (TNC).

With what the TNC described as an “unprecedented gift,” 8,000 acres of pristine wetlands where the Alabama and Tombigbee Rivers join, known as the Mobile Delta, were purchased for the purpose of conservation for $15 million. The owners chose to sell to TNC rather than to the timber industry which planned to log in the location.

“This is one of the most important conservation victories that we’ve ever been a part of,” said Mitch Reid, state director for The Nature Conservancy in Alabama.

The area is filled with oxbow lakes, creeks, and swamps alongside the rivers, and they’re home to so many species that it ranks as one of the most biodiverse ecosystems on Earth, such that Reid often jokes that while it has rightfully earned the moniker “America’s Amazon” the Amazon should seriously consider using the moniker “South America’s Mobile.”

“This tract represents the largest remaining block of land that we can protect in the Mobile-Tensaw Delta. First and foremost, TNC is doing this work for our fellow Alabamians who rightly pride themselves on their relationship with the outdoors,” said Reid, who told Advance Local that it can connect with other protected lands to the north, in an area called the Red Hills.

“Conservation lands in the Delta positions it as an anchor in a corridor of protected lands stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to the Appalachian Mountains and has long been a priority in TNC’s ongoing efforts to establish resilient and connected landscapes across the region.”

At the moment, no management plan has been sketched out, but TNC believes it must allow the public to use it for recreation as much as possible.

The money for the purchase was provided by a government grant and a generous, anonymous donor, along with $5.2 million from the Holdfast Collective—the conservation funding body of Patagonia outfitters."

Video via Mobile Bay National Estuary Program, August 7, 2020

Article via Good News Network, February 14, 2024

[queen-breha-organa]

I want to talk a little bit about Hawai‘i, because I have been thinking a lot about my people, and our lives.

The year 2023 marks 130 years since the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom.

On January 17th 1893, American businessman used their connections and military influence to dethrone Queen Liliuokalani by threat of force.

This annexation still impacts my people 130 years later. It still hurts us, it still haunts us,

For the last 130 years my people have suffered under America’s cruelty and indifference.

Unsustainable Tourism haunts us, causing a cost of living crisis, which turns into a rise in poverty, which turns into a rise in individuals experiencing homelessness. This cost crisis disproportionately effects my people, Kānaka Maoli. We cannot even afford to live on our on land. Our ancestral home.

And in turn, tourism then provides the most jobs. This industry pushes us off our land and into poverty, and then it turns around and sells us back our culture as a walking joke.

Our very identity is turned into entertainment. Our very culture is turned into entertainment.

And many of my people have no choice but to sell their culture so they can eat, so they can survive.

We have been put in a never ending cycle of misery and cultural destruction.

In addition, Military Involvement on our islands causes repeated incidents of ecological violence, and land disputes. The military take claim to land that belongs to my people, and they spill chemicals over and over, and poison the water we drink.

My people are suffering. Our culture is suffering.

And everyday more tourists come. Everyday more land is taken to build hotels. Everyday more culture is stripped and bastardized. Everyday more land is taken for military use.

I’m so tired of living this way. I’m so tired of waking up and watching the slow and agonizing death of my people.

I want us to live. I want us to thrive.

I want my people to survive.

I want to survive.

So please read up on the current issues that face Kānaka Maoli. Please educate yourself on my people’s history and current affairs.

Speak up and speak out. Talk about unsustainable tourism, and speak up about how harmful a “vacation” to Hawai‘i can be. Talk about the overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom, and it’s injustice.

Hawai‘i is Hawaiians. Hawai‘i is our history. Hawai‘i is our home. Hawai‘i is the very blood that runs through our veins.

So please do not forget us, and please speak up with us.

Support Hawaiian Sovereignty. Restore Hawai‘i to Hawaiians.

Resources & Education:

[peachesofteal]

Dad!John Price/female reader This has been living in my head

“Beautiful out, isn’t it?” 

The old woman on the docks hitches her shoulder bag higher, eyes fixed on nothing in the distance. John hums an agreement, low pitch slow to rise from his chest. It’s not a dismissal, but not conversation. Non-committal. About as much as you’ll get from him, on a day like today. 

He keeps his focus on the expanse of the bay. A metamorphic magma layered coastal cradle holding entire populations of people, and animals, those that live on land… and at sea. 

He’s waiting for a fleck of dust on the horizon, a small speck that will slowly turn into ferry, one that carries some passengers, a few packages, bundles of mail by the heap. It is beautiful today; he doesn’t disagree. But it’s not because of the weather.  It’s because the ferry is carrying more than just a few passengers home. It’s carrying his worst nightmare. The final nail in a coffin. His own personal hell.

And… 

His brightest light. His favorite part of everyday. His everything. The reason his heart still beats.

Both on the same boat. 

The sun shines through the tips of the trees, bright on his face, casting an amber yellow glow over the harbor, and he basks in it, even with the brittle cold. 

The warmth of the light is foreign this time year, a time year when creeks all run underneath a quickly thickening layer of ice, morning frost lingers beneath cloud cover, and bears sleep.  

The town will be full of life today. The bar at the top of the hill, the only one in town, will be burning the midnight oil, everyone appearing at some point throughout the night, eager to have one last rousing round with neighbors and friends before the true cold of winter sets in. 

Of course, they don’t hate the cold. They wouldn’t live here if they did. 

Life is different in the winter. Year round. Life here revolves more around the weather and the seasons than anywhere else he’s ever been, or lived, and everything from the kelp to the whales, the deer and sea lions, the people, and the wolves, depend on the promise of perpetual change. 

The tide washes through little pebbles of ancient volcanic rock like a lullaby, one so familiar he swears he can hear it when he’s working, when he’s worlds away in his mind. It’s peaceful, full of memories, nostalgia beating in his blood for something long gone, long past. 

His heart aches, for a moment. Long enough that his brow furrows, and his hands find his pocket, anxiously feeling for the chain. 

The ferry shatters his memories, blaring across the beach, and the old woman gives him a smile. 

“Early today.” This time, John does respond. 

“Good.” 

“You must be John.” She offers her hand, face half hidden beneath a large hood and knit muff, black pants and coat nearly matching his. 

He hesitates, fingers flexing, and she doesn’t miss a beat, moving on to step around him, speaking briefly to the ferry captain, an old grizzled man who stared at John the entire trip, blatant curiosity wrinkling his frown lines. 

The wind cuts through his jacket, snaking beneath his layers, forcing his muscles tense. 

Bloody freezing. He's been cold, plenty, but this bitterness has bite.

She squints and jerks her head towards the end of the dock, sunlight glittering in her eyes. They’re beautiful, a rich shade of coffee and hazel, golden spotted and drusy, a cluster of crystals inside dark pupils. They’re a color he could drown in. The kind of eyes he could see in his dreams for the rest of his life.

The kind of eyes capable of disarming him, before he's even drawn a weapon.

“C’mon. Truck’s got heat.” 

“Mari says you’ve never been a Ranger before.” She tries to make casual conversation with him, patting the steering wheel as the truck sputters to life. Gears grind, they churn, and she smiles, glancing at the road before putting it in gear. It’s old, rusted in a quaint way, the kind that makes him think of old industrial parks and aging tanks, a rugged red chipped away above the passenger wheel well, rubbed raw by salt air. 

“I have… relative experience.” He’s careful with his words, hesitant about over divulging, and she shrugs. 

“With people? Or wildlife?” He points his face out the window. With people, sure. With bears and wolves and whatever else lurks in these woods, less so. 

The truck climbs a windy road, pushing up above the cove, narrow pitted pavement flanked by forest so black he can hardly see a meter inside the tree line. The shadow that lingers inside the tree line is primordial, alive, and he blinks when he thinks he sees something moving, deep in the dark. Douglas fir, silver fir, white pine flash by, occasional road signs with pictures of animals and speed limits dotting the way. “Logging is big industry out here. Forestry feeds a lot of families in this area, but it can be a point of contention.” She motions past him to another cove, one tucked just around the bend from where the ferry came in, its surface covered in shaved logs, all nearly uniform in size, floating together in rows upon rows, waiting for their next voyage. 

“That what you do? Er… logging?” Her hands are rough, skin cracked, nails trimmed short, and the coat is utility. Built for labor. For weather. It’s a natural conclusion. 

“No. I run the nature center in the late spring and summer. No tourism in fall or winter though, so I find other things to do. Work for the park. Tag trees. Winter trail maintenance. Wildlife management.” The truck rattles into a left turn, and she waves at someone in an oncoming car. “Guess I kinda work for you now.” Her chuckle is light, sweet, and his cheeks feel warm. “What brought you all the way up here?” 

Bloody hell. 

“Needed a change of pace.” 

“Long way to come for a change.” She muses, and he agrees. It is very, very far. Three planes, two ferries, this truck. Hours of travel, temperature dropping in ten degree increments every time he stepped outside. He doesn’t know how to answer that, how to tell her, what he’s doing here, how to say he had to leave things behind. 

The island changes, geology shifting, granite turning to mud and grass, darkness fading as the truck putters into its final descent.

He instinctively taps the tags in his pocket, a nervous tic that’s develops over the last few months since he took them off for the last time and clears his throat. 

“Yes. It is.” 

The ferry sidles up the wooden dock, rocking in the waves, captain giving the small, older woman next to him a friendly wave. At his side, a woman stands, straight backed and proud, eyes sharp against the setting sun. 

Is that…

You catch his gaze, glancing at the Ranger badge on his coat, and then nodding, hand lifting in acknowledgement. 

His breath freezes in his chest. You’re stunning. Beautiful, like the land, like the strait, and for a second, he forgets himself. 

Igneous rock hardens in his stomach, in his heart.

He's lost at sea. Lost in the swell. An eddy line of devastation sweeps him out, past the lighthouse on the rocks, past the pod of resident orcas, past the point of no return.

He's drowning.

Only to be brought back by one of his favorite sounds in the entire world. 

“Dad!”

[baddywronglegs]

England doesn’t have a North-South divide. But if it did have one, Cornwall would be in the North.

Now I’m not saying there isn’t a big geographical divide between like, Manchester and Canterbury, or that the country’s a homogeneous patchwork, what I’m saying is this divide isn’t north-south and thinking about it as such masks a lot of things.

Oh, and I am, for necessity of discussing this divide, going to be ignoring the Midlands. I hope you forgive me ignoring the deep cultural ties between Birmingham and Rutland.

Map Men made a video about the North-South divide in England (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENeCYwms-Cc&ab_channel=JayForeman), which focused on the line determined by Danny Dorling in 2008.

… Which isn’t a north-south divide. It’s a northwest-southeast divide, going up at more than 45 degrees – it’s more an east-west divide than it is a north-south. It also includes Wales in “the North” but we’ll get to that.

But it was a north-south divide he set out to find, so a north-south divide he sort of drew, excluding exclaves and enclaves where the metrics he was looking at would make that not a north-south divide.

Notably, several would seem to put the west country peninsula in “the North”… So what’s up with that?

(Dorling's full paper is here, and I recommend looking through the whole thing to see how he arrived at the divide he eventually concluded: https://www.dannydorling.org/wp-content/files/dannydorling_publication_id2938.pdf)

Anyway. This is what’s up with that:

This is a geological map of Great Britain (and the Isle of Man, which isn’t actually part of the UK or any of its constituent countries but I guess it’s here anyway.)

Here again, in the boundary between Jurassic and Triassic geology, is that diagonal line from the Humber to the Severn, but continuing past both. For convenience, here are those two lines superimposed on one another.

With Danny Dorling’s line (frequently following county boundaries or other administrative boundaries) in blue, and the geological divide in red.

One line was drawn in 2008, the other has existed over 200 million years.

This isn’t a coincidence – it’s the reason for the divide.

What made “the North” is the industrial revolution. And one thing that drove the industrial revolution was the mines: coal, iron, silver, tin, the rocks beneath our feet and the people who dreamed they were worth more than the people they sent into the dark to bring it into the light.

Towns grew around mines, from Walker to South Crofty, and more than just the mines defining them, it was the mines closing that would cement the divide.

“Byker Hill and Walker Shore, collier lads forever more”

“Cornish lads are fishermen and Cornish lads are miners too”

- Two folk songs about regional identity’s roots in its industry, from opposite ends of this dividing line

In the West Midlands, the Black Country didn’t earn that name with caviar; it, like Manchester and Leeds, reinvented itself when the industry collapsed: cities built in the brick ruins of the temples built to the exploitation of the workers, blackened by the smokes of the cremation of its labour industry. When the light catches the steel and glass just right, you can still see the ghosts.

Even the country life outside the cities is shaped by this geology: the terrain north-west of this line doesn’t lend itself to large, flat expanses of land for arable farming, and the divide is visible again when looking at agriculture:

With the majority of land south of the Jurassic-Triassic line being arable, mixed and market gardening, with a fair amount of cattle in the Cotswolds and Chilterns and along the north side of the Thames, and the majority north-west of it being cattle and sheep – which are almost absent from the south side of the divide with the exception of the Isle of Wight and therefore, ironically, Cowes.

Not all farming is the same, the yearly flow of labour and of marketable goods between livestock and arable having little in common beyond being intensive work out-of-doors and taking huge amounts of land to accomplish.

But one thing that also goes hand in hand with this is that sheep aren’t mostly farmed for their meat but for their wool, and what drove industrialisation in the Pennines was the steam-loom: the mechanisation and mass-production of wool.

(Incidentally, on this map arable farming and market gardening also correlate with several types of English traditional dance: Molly, Border an East Midlands and East Riding plough dances, which began as a way for seasonal farmhands to make ends meet by busking with menaces in the winter off-season, but that’s for a later Morris ramble).

But hang on, that puts Hull on the same side of the divide as Kent, not, for example, Liverpool. So what gives there?

The East Riding isn’t built on mining - a kid with a bucket and spade could find the water table in most of the county.

Hull, and other ports of Yorkshire with it, was built on whaling – and not many industries have collapsed harder than whaling. For once, the geography of the land has little impact on this, but the geography of the sea does:

Between England and the European continent is a shallower stretch of sea called Dogger Bank – named for the Dutch cod-fishing boats known as Doggers which fished on it. But shallow water isn’t great for whales. So where is there water good for whales?

Well, whalers from Great Britain would venture as far as the Antarctic ocean in search of whales, and often hunted off Greenland – but there was water closer to home where whales did and still do frequent:

(There is still whaling in the North Sea. Around 500 minke whales are killed by Norwegian whalers each year “in objection to” the global ban on commercial whaling.)

Outside of this, there’s also a divide between port cities dealing primarily in cargo or primarily in passengers, something which is somewhat evening out by one means or another, but here’s a current map of UK passenger ports and their passenger numbers:

Or at least circles sized to correspond to their passenger numbers - source with stats: https://www.gov.uk/government/statistics/sea-passenger-statistics-all-routes-2021/sea-passenger-statistics-all-routes-2021

Compare this with a map of cargo ports by load:

Source with numbers: https://safety4sea.com/uk-ports-record-steady-performance-during-2018/

Generally showing passenger numbers getting lower the further you get from Dover, but not the same correlation with cargo (Plymouth and Holyhead both bucking this trend at a glance).

So, if not “The North” and “The South”, what name does make sense for this divide?

I propose “the South” be known as Lloegyr.

These names still exist: Domnonea still exists in Brittany both as a name for that same region from which Brittonic settlers came to Brittany and an area of Brittany named for them, and in Welsh, yr Alban is Scotland, Cymru is Wales and Lloegr is England.

Wales isn’t part of “the North”. “The North” is part of Wales.

[sunlightmurdock]

Like This Forever | 0.1 | J. Seresin

masterlist | next chapter

You’re thinking of the past, right as the future is about to change forever.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, childhood friends to lovers, country singer!Jake, smut, pining, blissful ignorance, other warnings to follow. wc: 3k (18+ minors do not interact)

A U G U S T 1 9 7 4 / F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 1

Driftwood — small town southwestern Texas, situated in Lockheart County. Springs, stony hills, and steep canyons. It’s good land, occupying a tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Edwards Plateu. That’s what they all say: good land, good soil. Large acreages of wheat for miles around, grown annually for harvest and winter through spring livestock grazing. The remaining two-thirds of the region is rangeland devoted to cattle ranching. Ranches in this region often seem older than the landscape itself. Lockheart County’s livestock industry is nationally appreciated, it was, even back then. Ranches here are huge, they’ve been there for generations. The town of Driftwood, itself, sits in a valley. It holds on to the people who settle there just like it holds onto the weight of that thick, summer heat all through the day. So hot that even the trees bend and furl like they’re seeking shade too.

Back then, Driftwood was even smaller than it is now. Post Office, Church, two schools, a fleet of locally owned stores on Main Street and a few other buildings for the fathers who weren’t ranchers or ranch hands to work.

On that day in early August, most of Driftwood’s thousand person population were nestled amongst the pews of St. Augustine’s Church, just outside of town. It’s a mile and a half from Main Street, and a mile and a half from the furthest fence on the Seresin Ranch. Their house is a sprawling thing that Bill’s grandfather had built — they haven’t got that kind of money now, and they didn’t on that morning in August. They’ve got three boys, who were squirming around the front pew, melting into the aged wood below them in their smart white button ups. They’ve got another boy too, standing behind Pastor James, holding a processional candle.

Jake’s their youngest. He was nine back then. Small for his age, especially when you stood him next to his brothers and their broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was beyond blond, lightened from the sun. His cheeks dusted with brown freckles and his eyes always narrowed into a type of John Wayne kind of squint. Jake loved John Wayne back then. He loved the cowboys on his bed sheets, and the fact he could see the cattle from his bedroom window. All he wanted back then was a pistol on his hip and a one-way ticket to El Dorado.

Mary-Lynn Seresin grew up in Driftwood, just like her husband had. She had known Bill since she was a little girl, and she had always known that she would marry him one day. Her nails were polished pink that day, sitting pretty atop the procession card as she fans herself with it. Two pews behind, you could still see a droplet of sweat bead from her neat blonde hairline and trail into the collar of her blue polka-dotted Sunday dress.

On that particular Sunday, the fans had packed up and stopped working. So, all six hundred of you who could make it out to St. Augustine’s we’re trapped in there — not just with Pastor James’ storytelling, but with the thick heat pressing down on the entire valley feeling like it had all been shut in this one room with the rest of you.

At the front, Jake Seresin’s cheeks were red, his hair was beading with sweat and his scarecrow, twig-like arms were trembling around the cross. He struggled with its weight and you had watched his green eyes flash out towards the crowd, briefly landing on his mother. Mary-Lynn gave him a proud nod. Bill was staring at the stagnant ceiling fans above their heads. You, were staring right at Jake.

Eight years old yourself, just eight weeks younger than Jake is, you have known that little grass-stain your entire life. In fact, Mary-Lynn and your mother found out that they were expecting just days apart. They had been in the same high school grade as girls, had married men who were good friends, and back then your mother had worked in the town’s hair salon five days a week. They grew very close through their pregnancies. Your mother was the first one to send flowers when Mary-Lynn went into labour a month and a half early.

Jake’s John-Wayne-Squint deepened through the heavy air, watching you like you were both about to draw pistols and settle this like men — right in the middle of Pastor James’ final verse. Your pigtails and your white Sunday dress weren’t fooling him. His robes and the heavy cross in his hand weren’t fooling you. Clearly following his brother’s gaze, Daniel Seresin turns and peers at you over his shoulder. He’s the closest in age to Jake, but he’s still five years older. Thirteen then and too grown up for childish squabbles like those, he just turned back to the front and shook his head.

The first three of the Seresin boys were all born within three consecutive years. Matthew, Noah and Daniel. They’re each tall like their mother, blonde like her too, and have inherited their father’s linebacker shoulders. Noah was fourteen and about to be a freshman in high school. After he fixed the chain on your bike at the beginning of summer, you were full-blown head-over-heels in love with him back then. You thought you were anyway.

Jake, however, had been in your class since Kindergarten and you had been forced to share your toys with him for even longer than that.

His arms trembled before you and your mouth had twitched. Neither one of you was listening to the service. It was almost over. Just a few more minutes until Pastor James wrapped up and the people of Driftwood and poured out of this sauna and out into the dry, morning sun.

Quickly, you shot a look at your mother sitting at your side. She was listening intently, staring right ahead with her neatly steamed clothes and her hair-sprayed hair. You’ll always remember the heavy smell of her rose-scented perfume. Every time you inhale it, you’re sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her fix her face in her vanity. Then, you looked to your father on the other side of you. Exactly the same. Pleased, you turn your attention back to the youngest Seresin boy.

Scrunching your nose, you had sat forwards just slightly and stuck your tongue out at him. Quite the diss back then. Jake’s green eyes had widened, sweat beading down his back under his white shirt and his service robes.

Driftwood is a safe place. It’s a fantastic town to raise children. The schools aren’t overcrowded and cars don’t speed through the centre of town. Country roads are a different story. But no one bats an eyelid, especially not back then, when their children are out of sight.

Mary-Lynn was busily detailing the events of her dinner party that coming Saturday to a group of women that are invited. She’s quite the hostess still. Your mother stood amongst them. Neither one of them were concerned about where their children were in the slightest. Until, that is, the sounds of muffled screaming filled their ears. The mothers of Driftwood rush to the commotion in their kitten heels and pretty dresses. Your mother was the first around the corner. She would recognise the sound of her baby’s screaming anywhere. But you weren’t the one in trouble. As usual, you had been causing it.

Your white dress grass-stained and muddy, dirt under your fingernails and covering your formerly white, frilled socks. You were kneeling. You haven’t yet noticed the crowd of women rushing in your direction. You’ve got Mary-Lynn Seresin’s youngest son pressed into the dirt, kneeling on his back and twisting his arm uncomfortably behind him.

“Say Uncle!” You demanded.

“You’re so dead! Get off!” Jake struggled under you, screaming with all the force that his growing lungs would allow. His voice must have been audible across the entire valley with how he was hollering. Freckled cheek pressed into the dirt, his white shirt was destroyed and he was in the middle of ruining his shoes with how he was scrambling for purchase in the dried dirt.

Quickly, your mother had grabbed you under your arms and hauled you off of the boy, spinning you to face her.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

“He started it! — He said my dress was ugly!”

“It is ugly, you look like a girl!” Jake huffed from behind you as he had stumbled onto his feet and taken a look down at his church clothes. Slowly, he had lifted his gaze to look at his mother. Sullen and worried looking, he began to pout. It wasn’t working. Mary-Lynn had raised three boys by then, she knew when they were trying to play innocent.

The thing about growing up so close together, is that approaching double digits was a confusing time. It was around that age that your mother began to put her foot down when it came to all of those tom-boy activities. Girls might roughhouse and come home with holes in their jeans and mud on their faces, but young ladies didn’t. The dress was her idea.

Jake’s comment had been passing, just a whisper as his family had headed into church ahead of yours, but he was right — you did look like a girl. Back then, that wasn’t a compliment coming from him. So, you had cornered him outside and pummeled him into the dirt. Fair is fair.

“Mary-Lynn, I am so sorry about her — send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m sorry, we should go.” Your mother had sighed in a hurry, frowning down at your ruined clothes, then looking towards Jake’s. You’ll always remember the smile on Mary-Lynn’s face after. Not pity, because she knew you were in a lot of trouble for this. Just fondness. She had gently patted your mother’s forearm and shaken her head.

“Let’s finish our chat. They’re already filthy. Let them play.”

Looking up at her, you hadn’t understood why she was siding with you back then. You had just almost broken her son’s arm for sport. As you grew, Mary-Lynn Seresin was always on your side. In her kitten heels and dresses, she remembered being a dirt-covered little girl once too. No one was telling her son that it was time yet, to be a man. There’s no harm in letting you be young a little longer.

Your mother had looked uncertain, but people in Driftwood always looked to Mary-Lynn for advice. She had somehow managed to keep four boys in line perfectly, her parenting expertise was studied by those around her. Finally, she had given you a brief nod.

You remember spinning on the delicate almost-heel of your church shoes, rounding on Jake, ready to brawl. You have no clue where the stick came from, but he was armed when you had turned around — but Jake always fought fair. He tossed you a stick of your own and took aim. Green eyes narrowed, he was trying to look down his freckled nose at you, but you were taller then.

“She’s gonna marry that boy someday.” Mary-Lynn Seresin had huffed with a wistful smile, watching the mud-caked children tear off through the field once again. This time, with sticks in hands and violent intent plastered across their dirty faces.

You’re not eight anymore. Jake’s not nine. This time of the year, you both happen to be twenty-six. You aren’t trying to kill him with a stick anymore either. You’re sitting at your favourite bar in Driftwood — there are four now — watching your best friend up on stage. He’s always confident. He has been since he hit that growth spurt when he was twelve. Since then, Jake has been unstoppable. But on stage is when he really shines.

The Dark Star feels like an old bar. It’s packed every Friday night. It smells like malt and smoke and Jake’s been playing here every Saturday since he was seventeen. This is the last time that it will ever be like this, and you don’t even know it yet. Jake’s in the middle of an original. People around here know him, they know his music. They might not get all the words right, but he always gets people singing.

Jake isn’t small for his age now. He grew into his nose, and he inherited those big shoulders, his skin’s tanned from his days out at the ranch. He’s strong and funny and kind. Sometimes it catches you off guard, when you turn your head and find a man in place of the little boy you once knew.

You’re in a booth, talking numbers. It turns out that you had inherited your mother’s knack for business strategy, and Jake’s way with words had rubbed off on you long ago.

You don’t look like the little girl Jake had once known either. If he was concerned about you looking like a girl before, then you can only imagine how dismayed he must be when he looks at you now. Breasts and everything.

“It’s more than potential, Stu — you saw how crazy people were for him when he was opening for The Ashford Band.” You tell him, fingers curled around a brown glass bottle. This is already settled, the deal is already done. You knew from the second that he walked in that you had Stu Adler suckered.

This is a deal that you’ve been mulling over for a couple of months now. Getting Jake on his first headline tour. His debut album came out last week and it’s doing well, but the record label is tiny and the publicity deal is even smaller. Jake’s making pennies compared to other people in his genre, but you’re about to change all of that.

“Six months is a long time on the road. It’s a different lifestyle,” Stu’s dishwater grey eyes flicker briefly up from the plunging neckline of your top to meet your gaze. He’s an older man, with a once successful career in Los Angeles. Now, he spends his time scrounging small towns for talent. He’s just a stepping stone in your plans for Jake. “You’re sure he can handle it?”

Stretching your legs out, you scoff incredulously at the accusation as Jake’s last song dwindles behind you. The beer bottle is cool against your lips. Stu swallows, watching your lips purse around the rim to drink. You know he’d die for the chance to get his wrinkly, old dick in your mouth — it’s why Jake’s about to get the best deal of his life.

“Jake? — Of course.”

“Can you?” Stu asks. The light on you for once makes you cringe. Even so, your poker face doesn’t falter. Calmly staring across the table at him, a small smile on your face. “Y’know, he’s going to need a manager that I can rely on. I.e. — one that he won’t dump, sweetheart.”

This only makes your smile grow. “Jake is like a brother to me. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It’s that lie that secures the deal. Six months, a hundred and sixty dates across the US. Mostly small venues, but it’s his first headline tour — and it’s all because of you. Because of that one little white lie. Letting Stu think that he’s got a chance with you. Letting him think that you’ve never fucked Jake.

You have. Twice, already by this point. Once, after senior prom. Your date was an asshole and his was cruel. You’d parked his truck out in the west pasture of the Seresin ranch and got a little too drunk under the stars, and wound up with your legs hiked up over his shoulders. The second time was Thanksgiving two years ago. Your family joined his. All of his brothers have fiancés or wives now. Sharing Jake’s bed in his childhood home that night, neither one of you was drunk. You were just lonely, and maybe bored.

Tonight, there are a couple of different factors at play. Sure, by the time that you and Jake collapse down onto that red, velvet couch in the Dark Star’s ‘dressing room’, you’ve had plenty to drink. You’re not quite as lonely as you were that thanksgiving, though.

You turn your head and he’s grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving from the energetic final song. His arms stretch along the backs of the couch, his eyes closed for a moment. You watch him silently.

“You’re incredible.” Jake’s half-cut on an unhealthy mix of tequila and vodka, but smiling, eyes still shut, chin still pointed towards the sky. He gives his head a small shake. “A hundred and sixty dates.”

A smile plasters itself across your lips. As drunk as you are, it’s nice to be complimented for your hard work. “Yeah, we’ll see if you still think I’m so incredible when you’re living off of burgers and beer and still have eighty shows to go.”

The smell of cigarettes lives within the fibre of this room. Part of the furniture, nestled amongst the cracks in the red painted walls. There’s the couch that you’re sitting on, and an illuminated vanity against the far wall, and then a coat stand. It’s not much of a dressing room, but it’s fine.

You just wish it would stop spinning.

“I mean it.” His fingers rest atop your denim clad thigh, patting platonically. You hear him sigh from beside you. He squeezes at the supple skin under his hand. “Thank you.”

“Jake… since when do you have manners?” You ask him. Both of you are sitting with your eyes shut on this old, probably dirty, velvet couch. It’s five in the morning. The two of you might have gone a little overboard with celebrating. Wayne Mayhew, the owner of the Dark Star might have threatened to kick you both out of his bar if you didn’t finally get off of his damn stage ten minutes ago.

But there’s a high buzzing between the two of you that feels electric. Wordlessly, you know Jake feels it too. That this is the last night. Here, in this shitty hometown bar. Everything is about to change. After this tour, nothing will ever be the same again — for either of you.

Jake’s thumb trails back and forth in just one small pattern, reminding you that it’s there on your thigh.

It’s been on your mind all day, for no reason at all. That Sunday in August in 1974. Your ruined church dress and the fat bruise on Jake’s cheek the next day when you had seen him at the market. The start of it all.

Those late night drives and all the evenings you studied together. Jake’s football games and his band practices — back when he had thought he wanted to be in a band. Him drying your tears and making you laugh. Growing up together, talking for hours and hours about all of the possibilities. This was everything Jake had ever wanted, and he’s thanking you.

Your eyelids weigh double what they normally do — heavy as you blink open your eyes and turn your head. This time, he’s looking across at you. The tips of his fingers brush the inseam of your blue, low-rise jeans. His face is calm, he isn’t saying anything and he’s far from doing anything either.

Scrunching your nose, you poke your tongue out at him. Across the couch, Jake lifts his brows. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s got stubble now. Stubble, and chest hair and an Adam’s apple. But that look, that glint in his eye that’s just daring you to try him has always been the same.

Jake’s fingers twitch, pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Dim lighting, fifteen year old red paint on each of the four walls, and that perpetual cigarette smell — it’s hardly a romantic fantasy. And this is far from a good idea.

But it’s Jake. Confident, loud Jake who gets shy when he’s around someone he really likes. Funny, smart-mouthed Jake who under it all is a great listener. Goofy, habitual Jake who has the nighttime routines of a fifty year old housewife.

Strong-willed, handsome, Jake, your best friend — who’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

…

@fia-thefirst @daggerspare-standingby @dempy @v0id-chaos @moonlight-addisyn @grxcisxhy-wp @shakespeareanwannabe @coconut152 @330bpm-whiplash @takemetooneverlanddd @princess76179 @loveofvernonslife @averyhotchner @trickphotography2 @sushiwriterhere @the-romanian-is-bae @atarmychick007 @talktomegooseman @xoxabs88xox @thedroneranger @roostersforevergirl @buckysdollforlife @abaker74 @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989 @whatislovevavy @lonelywriter10 @s-u-t @topguncortez @callsign-joyride @rosedurin @86laura11 @theenorthstar @mygyn @growup-thatbeautiful @percysaidnever @katiedid-3 @its-the-pilot

[fxdltc88]

Happy Anniversary Little Caesars!

Little Caesars was established at 32594 Cherry Hill Rd.

May 8th 1959, in Garden City, Mi.

Mike Ilitch played second base for the Tigers and a couple of other teams beginning in 1952.....thanks to a knee injury, he had to retire in 1955.

Little Caesars' history says it all began as a love story in 1954, when Ilitch and Marian Bayoff were thrown together on a blind date by Mike's dad. Fortunately, they hit it off, and it was just a few months later when they married. The two of them pooled their life savings in order to open their own business: a pizza restaurant.

1962 Little Caesars first franchise opened in Warren, called “Little Caesars Pizza Treat”. This featured the “Little Caesar guy eating a slice of pizza” logo. From there, Little Caesars really began to branch out and became the fastest-growing pizza chain in America.

That single mom-and-pop pizza shop grew into the third largest pizza chain in the world with stores in more than 27 countries and territories worldwide, including in each of the 50 U.S. states.

The growth of Little Caesars helped Mike and Marian create other leading brands in the food, sports and entertainment industries.

The couple purchased the Detroit Red Wings in 1982. While the team was known as the Dead Wings at the time, Mike and Marian believed they were a sleeping giant and immediately took charge to turn the team around. By 1997, the Red Wings won their first Stanley Cup in 42 years, and they went on to win three more.

Mike encouraged the Ford family to bring the Detroit Lions back to Detroit from the suburbs and build a new stadium right next door to the ballpark by relinquishing a portion of land to make way for the new stadium. The new football venue allowed Detroit to host the Super Bowl in 2006.

Today - true to Mike and Marian's vision for a bustling downtown area - the Ilitch organization is developing The District Detroit, a dynamic urban destination that provides a dense neighborhood experience featuring a variety of developments alongside Detroit's premier sports and entertainment venues. This includes the new highly innovative and state-of-the-art Little Caesars Arena, home of the Detroit Red Wings and Detroit Pistons, and the recipient of the 2018 Sports Facility of the Year award, presented by Sports Business Journal.

Throughout Mike’s life, he remained true to his hometown and was a zealous supporter of Detroit, working tirelessly to help it prosper and to bring pride to the city. In 1988, Mike and Marian purchased the neglected Fox Theatre and carefully restored it to its original 1928 splendor.

One year later, they moved the Little Caesars world headquarters from the suburbs into the newly renovated Fox Office Center adjacent to the restored theatre. This was during a time when many businesses were fleeing the city.

Mike displayed further commitment to the city he loved when he purchased the Detroit Tigers in 1992 and built a new state-of-the-art ballpark for the team. Remembering his early years as a minor league baseball player with the Tigers, he did everything in his power to make the fan experience at Comerica Park a memorable one.

Mike and Marian believed passionately in giving back to the community. As the parents of children who played hockey, the couple wanted to provide other children the opportunity to play the sport as well. So, they established the Little Caesars Amateur Hockey Program in 1968, and it has provided opportunities for tens of thousands of youngsters to play the great game of hockey over the years. Hundreds have gone on to play at colleges, universities and in the National Hockey League.

Inspired by the story of a veteran returning to civilian life, Mike founded the Little Caesars Veterans Program in 2006. The program provides honorably discharged veterans with financial incentives and other support to help them open a Little Caesars franchise.

Since 2000, grants and giving from Marian and Mike, the Ilitch companies and its charitable affiliates have totaled $220 million. This includes Marian and Mike's personal gifts of nearly $50 million to Detroit's Wayne State University - $8 million to the Department of Surgery and $40 million to build a new home for the Mike Ilitch School of Business, prominently located on Woodward Avenue.

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 6 March 1913, Joe Hill's song "There is Power in a Union" first appeared in the Industrial Workers of the World union's Little Red Song Book. Sung on picket lines and in working class protests around the country, it asks workers: "Would you have mansions of gold in the sky/and live in a shack, way in the back?/Would you have wings up in heaven to fly/And starve here with rags on your back?" And advises them: "There is power, there is power/In a band of workingmen,/When they stand hand in hand/That’s a power, that’s a power/That must rule in every land,/One Industrial Union Grand". Hill was executed by the state of Utah in 1915 in what is widely regarded as a politically-motivated miscarriage of justice. Get it and over 250 other IWW songs in this book: https://shop.workingclasshistory.com/products/the-big-red-songbook-250-iww-songs https://www.facebook.com/workingclasshistory/photos/a.1819457841572691/2224506554401149/?type=3

[werdivrse]

WHAT’S MY NAME ? … AHRI.

THE leader and center of DI-VERSE. Widely considered to be one of the industry’s “it girls,” AHRI is renowned for her skills as the group’s ace, and she’s one of the most popular visuals of the 2nd generation. Prominent as an idol, actress, and model, AHRI is the MOST POPULAR member of DI-VERSE.

BASICS !

BIRTH NAME ! park ah-reum

ENGLISH NAME ! ariana naomi park

NICKNAMES ! ari, reumie, riri

BIRTHDAY ! september 1st, 1994

BIRTHPLACE ! apgujeong, seoul, south korea

HOMETOWN ! palm beach, florida / beverly hills, california

ETHNICITY ! korean

NATIONALITY ! korean (nationalized american)

SEXUALITY ! bisexual

CLAIMS !

FACE ! nana (after school) + yooa (oh my girl) + bae suzy (soloist)

VOICE ! hyuna (soloist) + yezi (soloist) / eunjung (t-ara)

DANCE ! minzy (ex-2ne1)

PHYSICAL !

HEIGHT ! 5’7” (170 cm)

WEIGHT ! 116 lbs (52 kg)

BLOOD TYPE ! b

PIERCINGS AND TATTOOS !

see here !

CAREER !

PROFESSION ! idol, actress, model, mc, choreographer, songwriter

YEARS TRAINED ! 4 years

YEARS ACTIVE ! 2011–present

POSITION ! leader, center, main dancer, lead rapper, sub-vocalist, visual

REPRESENTATIVE EMOJI ! 🐱

history !

Park Ah-reum was born on September 1st, 1994 in Apgujeong, Seoul, South Korea. The second oldest of three daughters, she was born to two entertainment industry moguls. As the daughter of pop icon Ah-young Kim and renowned director Park Junghoon, and hailing from a family of actors, Ah-reum and her sisters were pretty much expected to go into entertainment one day. Ah-reum would get her start as a child actress and model, often appearing on screen alongside her mother.

In 2005, the family would move from their ritzy apartment in seoul to Palm Beach—one, for a change of scenery, and two, for Ah-reum to get a chance at furthering her career. After a few modeling gigs, Ah-reum scored a contract with Disney, and the family was quick to relocate to California. However, in 2006, Ah-reum and her older sister were persuaded to audition for SM ENTERTAINMENT alongside one of their friends. Ever the “momager,” Ah-young allowed the girls to audition, and they passed. There, they trained alongside the future members of GIRLS’ GENERATION and even met their future bandmate, KIM EUNMI. After only training for a year, however, the girls ended up leaving the company. They returned to california, and Ah-reum continued acting.

Then, in early 2008, Ah-reum and her sister were scouted off the streets again, this time by CSJ ENTERTAINMENT. A medium sized company, they had recognizable 1st generation names under their belt such as CODE RED and THE DREAM. The girls auditioned again, and yet again, they made it through. AS a trainee, Ah-reum modeled frequently, appearing in quite a lot of CFs. She also had bit parts in dramas, and appeared in music videos for Code Red, The Dream, and other groups such as GIRLS’ GENERATION and SHINEE. She, along with her sister and another soon-to-be member of DI-VERSE, JUNG MINA, were also backup dancers for the former.

In late 2009, CSJ began plans for another girl group, teasing the possibility on their website. Slated for debut in the summer of 2010 and meant to have nine members, the agency was quick to choose promising trainees for the new lineup. Ah-reum was known for her visuals and surprising rap skills, and she and her sister were both talented dancers. As a result, they and another trainee, KIM EUNMI, were three of the first members chosen to debut in what would become DI-VERSE.

The lineup went through a couple changes before landing on what would be it’s final one in early 2010. With their debut coming close, the girls were pushed even harder by CSJ. However, in may, Ah-reum went through a particularly severe anxiety attack, and was thus diagnosed with anxiety disorder, bipolar depression, and OCD. As a result, she was forced to temporarily pull from the debut lineup. Not wanting to debut DI-VERSE without Ah-reum, CSJ pushed the group’s debut to the end of 2010, before pushing it into 2011 to allow ample time for Ah-reum to rest. She didn’t train for 5 months, and ended up returning in October. At that point, a debut that year was virtually impossible.

Into 2011, Ah-reum continued training with the rest of DI-VERSE, appearing in more music videos and CFs alongside the members as their debut approached. And finally, after 3 years and a delayed debut, Ah-reum was revealed as the FIRST MEMBER of DI-VERSE, debuting as the group’s leader, main dancer, lead rapper, sub-vocalist, and visual.

trivia !

in 2012, AHRI replaced her sister as the center of DI-VERSE, shortly before the start of the HATE U era

predebut, she was a rhythmic gymnast and a classically trained contemporary dancer

as a child model, she modeled for brands such as chloé, miu miu, and chanel. she walked the runway for chanel with her mother in 2000

[frogspawned]

this is such incredibly poor reasoning. biden is actively alienating his own party, you know, the thing he needs to have behind him to win, the people who want him to win this fucked up binary of bad options, to appeal to people who absolutely will not vote for him. who cares if they are stirred up! they don't like him anyways! they were never going to be swayed to the left, particularly in the current extremely polarized political climate in the united states. you're alienating your base for ZERO return. why are mainstream democrats always pulling this same tired routine? it has NEVER worked! you're just cutting away your own support, like some idiot sawing at his own rope while dangling over a cliff, because some of the other guy's might slip loose (spoiler they won't).

if trump wants to be the most pro-israel president in history, why are you competing with him for it? let him fucking die on that hill. your actual voters, your staff, the whole fucking world world are all BEGGING you to get off the hill.

"my opponent wants to wear the shit crown, but gosh, his followers -- who hate me viscerally and will never support me under any circumstances -- won't like it if i don't fight for the shit crown. oh well! guess i better wear it first!"

i'm already holding my fucking nose knowing i'm going to have to vote for this joke, because the alternative is the the same but worse! at least i can try to shame biden, and pressure him! we've moved the needle incrementally, and the momentum is building. too slow, but it is. the us abstained for the last UN vote for ceasefire. which is not enough, laughably paltry by any stretch, but at least it's creeping in the right direction. trump's going to continue to fund israel's war machine gleefully, with no hold's barred, if not ramp it up. he will actively enjoy any protest as red meat for his followers. because then he can whinge and posture and puff himself up. biden has an emotional attachment to the idea of israel? who gives a shit joe! maybe one should care more about the reality than the idea, and the reality is undeniable at this point. it's standing stark and naked before the world.

the reality is the united states has poured BILLIONS into a genocide machine who openly celebrates ethnic cleansing. idf soldiers put up selfies and funny tiktoks, and loot the homes of the palestinians they've slaughtered for the crime of existing on land they want. idf snipers target aid workers and doctors and children. they block food and medicine. they blow up trucks of flour. this is not speculation -- even if someone doesn't believe what their own eyes can see, every day, of the horrors pouring out of palestine, then take israel's word for it. they're proud of what their doing. they celebrate it. they snipe old women and beat old men to death, use children as bait for ambulance drivers, tear down homes and temples and mosques and centuries old olive groves then post it for their friends and family to see. they actively corroborate their own war crimes on tiktok.

but because it's easy, because the us has always done it, because it makes money for contractors and makes evangelicals giddy about the apocalypse, we'll just continue to pour anti tank rounds into their hands, missiles, drones, whatever tools they need to """mow the grass"""" in gaza. the military industrial complex has the us in an inescapable chokehold, in every facet of our lives, and god forbid we stop throwing lives and money and blood down the endless money hole. they might stop bombing people if we stop sending them bombs! and then how will israel sell that prime beach front property?

and in a decade we'll wring our hands and coo about what a tragedy it was, how sad, how inevitable, and throw up a fucking memorial in some park so we'll never forget.

[rabbitcruiser]

Plateau Viewpoint, UT

Grand County terrain is arid, rough, and spectacularly carved by water and wind erosion, exposing red rock formations that have created a solid tourist industry. The area is little used for agriculture unless irrigation is available. The terrain is filled with hills and protuberances, but generally slopes to the south and to the west. Its highest point is Mount Waas in the SE part of the county, at 12,336' (3760m) ASL. The county has a total area of 3,684 square miles (9,540 km2), of which 3,672 square miles (9,510 km2) is land and 12 square miles (31 km2) (0.3%) is water. Deserts, cliffs and plateaus make up the scenery, with few settlements apart from the city of Moab, a Colorado River oasis. Arches National Park lies in the southern part of the county, just north of Moab. A northern portion of Canyonlands National Park lies in the southwest corner of the county.

​Source: Wikipedia    

[galaxy-realty-chennai]

2.5 Acre Industrial Land Sale in Vichur near Manali

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[flagwars]

People’s Flag Wars: Round 1, Bracket 14

See the symbolism below.

The First Light flag is the official flag of Syracuse, New York, designed by Eric Hart.

Symbolism: “Through the use of simple color and shape the First Light flag shares a complex story of our people and personality, our geography and weather, our past and future, and our relationship to our surrounding area.

Six-Pointed Star: Symbolizes the Six Nations of the Haudenosaunee, of which the Onondaga Nation plays a central role. It symbolizes the six historical names by which Syracuse has been known: Salt Point, Webster's Landing, Bogardus Corners, Milan, South Salina, and Cossits' Corners (not incl. Corinth). It is the sun, a guiding light. Its central placement on the flag marks Syracuse's central location in New York State.

Mirrored triangles: Symbolizes the hills of Onondaga. The word onoñda'gega' means, "people of the hills" in the Onondaga language. The left triangle is the hill westward toward Hiawatha Lake. The right triangle is the hill eastward toward Thornden Park. The space between the triangles is the Onondaga Valley.

Star set between triangles: Symbolizes the sunrise over the Onondaga Valley.

This is described in a line from Syracuse University's Alma Mater, ". where the vale of Onondaga meets the Eastern sky." Represents a new day, a bright future, and good fortunes ahead.

Orange Star on White: Symbolizes our history of using the sun to pull white salt from our salt springs. It also represents the sun warming us during our cold, white winters.

The Chevron: Symbolizes the Roman numeral "V" indicating the five Syracuse Common Council Districts. It also represents "The V-Sign," international symbol for peace and friendship.

Three Distinct Triangles: Symbolic of the city's past, present and future. The left triangle points to the past. The central triangle points to the present. The right triangle points toward the future. It represents Syracuse across the ages. Syracuse: for now and forever.

Orange Symbolic of: The Sun, Regeneration, Restoration, Courage, Passion, Creativity

Azure Blue Symbolic of: Onondaga Lake, the Erie Canal, Perseverance, Intelligence

Navy Blue Symbolic of: The hills of Onondaga, Trust, Loyalty, Industriousness

White Symbolic of: Salt, Snow, Peace, Purity”

Family flag was made by an anonymous submitter.

Symbolism: “5 brothers (5 outer rings), 2 parents, connected to look like glasses (we all have glasses), a line to represent the fact me and my little brother are the only one of our brothers who live in the same house, and cat noses to represent our very likely deceased cat.”

Vădastra, Romania is a flag by Turcu Mihai that is planned to be adopted as the official city flag.

Symbolism:

“1. The Blue Background: The blue background represents the village's connection to the Olt County and the Oltenia region. Blue often symbolizes stability, tradition, and the natural surroundings, reflecting the rural setting and historical heritage of Vădastra.

2. The Yellow Stripes: The two corrugated yellow stripes crossing the flag from the lower-left corner to the upper-right corner can symbolize various aspects. Yellow often represents wealth, fertility, and the abundant agricultural resources that are vital to the village's economy. The corrugated design could evoke the rolling hills or fields of crops found in the area.

3. The Red Section: The red section in the lower-right corner, separated by the yellow lines, could symbolize the vitality and strength of the community. Red is often associated with energy, determination, and the spirit of the people who live in Vădastra.

4. The yellow vase: Including a tallos vase in the Canton (upper-left corner) is a direct reference to the village's rich vase culture and the historical significance of these artifacts. It highlights the deep-rooted history and archaeological discoveries that have been made in Vădastra, dating back thousands of years. Also this color completes the Romanian color scheme

Overall, our flag design combines elements that represent the village's history, culture, and economic foundation, creating a meaningful and unique symbol for Vădastra.”

[fizzycherrycola]

Any headcanons about how many homes America and Canada have?

Yes! They have many homes.

⭐ America ⭐

In New York City, America spent decades jumping from place to place. As the city grew, he moved from a house in Manhattan, to a Brooklyn apartment, to a flat in Queens, etc. Now, despite his best efforts, his current apartment is just a box with an AC unit sticking out the window. He wishes he could have a nicer place in NYC, but the market is too hot even for him.

In Los Angeles, he managed to snag a gorgeous Santa Monica house in the early Hollywood days before prices exploded into the stratosphere. Just a short walk to the Pacific ocean, he never sold it and it’s worth its weight in gold by now.

His spot in Washington D.C. is the one he most uses; a stately, historical home that would probably be turned into a small museum if he ever decides to sell it (but he never will). Sometimes, the place can get a bit messy, with papers, file folders, and take-out containers scattered about, but he’ll tidy up when company is coming.

A farm in Ohio that has seen better days. In the early 20th century, he used the barn as a workshop to tinker with automobiles and flying machines. As a result, the barn is quite damaged, but America won’t repair it. He thinks the oil stains “add character”.

A lively hotel in Louisiana with a restaurant on the first floor. Yes, he owns the whole thing. It’s been managed by humans for generations within the same family. They cook massive Creole feasts whenever America drops by.

America doesn’t seek solitude often, but when he does, he goes to his mountain home in Colorado.

He stubbornly hangs onto his Texas ranch even though he doesn't raise cattle anymore.

Once he owned a beachfront property in Florida, but sold it after the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Unfortunately, through no fault of his own, his childhood home in Boston caught fire after the Revolution and burnt down. The land it was on is now a popular public park with swing sets, monkey bars, and a huge curly slide. Many local children say it’s their favourite park in the city.

There are many more, of course, but those are some of his standout homes.

🍁 Canada 🍁

Of all his homes, Canada stays at his Ottawa house most often. The backyard is filled with a rainbow of tulips and it’s within cycling distance to Parliament Hill. He keeps several pairs of ice skates for himself and whoever visits during the winter, so they can go skating over the frozen Rideau Canal.

Canada’s Toronto flat is the most modern-looking of his dwellings, but that isn’t saying much. It’s an industrial loft with mismatched furniture still stuck in the 1980s. It really isn’t his favourite place, but he likes the view of the skyline at sunset.

One of his childhood homes is still standing; a humble, stonework Montreal house. It’s been restored by historical societies; fresh paint on the door, a tidy lawn, and black soot swept away. He made an arrangement to lease it as a museum, but has the opportunity to return and stay there whenever he chooses.

There’s a ramshackle log cabin he built himself in Algonquin park, many years before it was designated as parkland. To quote my NedCan fic: “... a stone base decorated in moss. Turn-of-the-century windows and an amber-stained porch pleasantly frame the main door, while the modernized roof and chimney stack create a mishmash of different eras... like a favourite worn blanket; too beloved to be discarded, and so instead is repeatedly patched.”

On the east coast, he has a home in Halifax proper. Sadly, his original was destroyed in the Halifax Explosion and was rebuilt to the standards of the 1920s. He misses his older house, because it was where Scotland would visit during his childhood.

In St. John’s, he has a very colourful building, painted bright red with white window frames and small gardens in both the front and back.

A simple, suburban bungalow in Red Deer, Alberta. Perfect for business and relaxation, because it’s halfway between both Edmonton and Calgary and keeps the Rocky Mountains within reach. Piles of hiking gear are stored in the attic, basement, and the garage. When he can spare the time, he’ll drive out to the Rockies for weeks of camping, climbing, hiking, or skiing.

His British Columbia home is surrounded by old-growth trees.

Overall, Canada tries to have at least one home in each of his provinces and territories. If, at the time of travel, he doesn’t, he'll try to lodge in a wildlife research centre. The scientists, who usually work for the government, don’t mind his presence at all.

Thank you for the ask!! 💜

[kudzucataclysm]

stuff about the city of Necropolis

Geography

Necropolis Metro is located in the same region as the former Northeast Metropolitan area - the NEC encapsulates the entirety of the former Northeast Corridor and the surrounding areas and cities. The city itself has a radius of around 50,000 square miles and houses just under 100 million people. It’s split in half by the Hudson river, into North Gate NEC and South Gate NEC.

SOUTH GATE NEC

South Gate is widely acknowledged to be the nicer part of the city; by 1970, it was completely rebuilt and renovated. It’s where the 5 largest companies in the world headquarter in the city, as well as where local government is based along with the police headquarters. Unfortunately it’s got a bit of an irradiated water problem.

It’s also the part of the city with the largest population of humans and cyborgs.

Districts: City Center, Hudson West, Lower Waterside

NORTH GATE NEC

North of the river, it’s a war zone all the time, all day every day. It’s disputed as an international zone which in layman’s terms means: no one gives a flying fuck. In the east, wild animals and even feral Martians roam the ruins at night. Companies station entire platoons of their private militaries to guard their property. That’s how bad the crime rate is.

It’s the part of the city with the largest population of mutants and Chimeras.

Districts: Hudson East, Upper Waterside, Providence Row

DISTRICT: CITY CENTER

Not really at the “center” of the NEC, City Center is nonetheless the real showcase of Necropolis. It contains the central business district, commercial hub, and local government sector for the entire NEC metropolitan area. Most of the city’s corporations and administration operate from here.

ZONES: 1-3

Sub-Districts: Eden (1), Downtown (2), Delaware Valley (3)

DISTRICT: HUDSON

So named after the river that runs through it, the district of Hudson is known as “the bedroom of the NEC” as it’s where a vast majority of its population happens to live. It’s primarily divided between East and West; Hudson West is regarded as the nicer of the two districts but both Hudsons are riddled with dangerous and unwelcoming slums, with Hudson East currently being the battleground between various Night Market gangs.

The sub-district of Lower Waterside also tends to be included with the greater Hudson area. It houses mostly corporate employees and minor celebrities.

ZONES: 4, 5, 7

Sub-Districts: Lower Waterside (4), Hudson West (5), Hudson East (7)

DISTRICT: PROMETHEUS LANDING

Formerly known as “Long Island”, the area is now under the complete control of the Promethean Society and functions as its headquarters, schooling and industrial testing grounds; as such, it’s the most secure and fortified district in the city.

ZONES: 6

Areas: PS-0, PSS-1

DISTRICT: PROVIDENCE ROW

The district of Providence Row is regarded as the most dangerous area in the NEC; it is a destroyed and poor area, with an almost complete lack of local law enforcement, government, or investments from any corporations or foreign governments. Privately funded armies are needed to protect corporate property, and it's funky baby holocaust time all day every day- the only thing it has going for it is the harbor in Waterside.

Providence (notably) has the highest population of Chimeras and mutants.

ZONES: 8-10

Sub-Districts: Upper Waterside (8), Haven (9), Red Hill (10)

THE UNDERCITY

The city underneath Necropolis is more or less a backup plan; in the case of extraterrestrial or foreign military attack, a good couple million NEC civilians can find shelter from the storm- although not really. That’s reserved for people who can afford it. But for now it’s home to the Night Market and various other unscrupulous businesses, as well as plenty of feral Chimera and Martian nests.

THE UFO

The UFO is an enormous flying metal structure that hovers constantly over and around the NEC, and is the most important structure on Earth. It houses the office of Earth Administrator, Martian King Azelfafage, as well as his security, soldiers and engineers. It is the headquarters from which Mars governs Earth.

POLITICS OF THE NEC

After the invasion and the mass executions of urban warlords, the NEC was more or less “sacrificed” by the US government to become a neoliberal paradise; a tax haven and vital hub for cheap as shit labor and overseas shipping. The city is being kept in a laissez-faire stasis in order to benefit companies, limiting the authority of local institutions and government. The city itself also operated as a massive immigrant inspection and processing center during the European Refugee Crisis; as many as 180 million refugees streamed through the harbors, and more than half ended up trapped in the city with nowhere else to go.

The city itself is headed by a “Chief Executive”, who is officially the representative of the entirety of the NEC and its government, although the executive holds no real power.

The death penalty is very much alive for your average citizen, and unfortunately for them as well, the penal colony system is thriving- its that or a military prison.

Mutants and Chimera on the other hand get sent to the Zoo: a black ops prison city housing thousands of criminal aliens and superpowered criminals. It’s located nowhere near the NEC and those who are sent there are never heard from again.

Possession of narcotics is legal in the NEC; however police officers can confiscate drugs for whatever reason. Corporate espionage is also legal, but outside of the city is a serious high level offense. Confession of a crime to a Military or Peace officer results in an automatic suspension of civil rights; the confession and anything said will be used in the court of law as evidence. It’s not illegal for officers to take bribes, and will be seen as “donations”. Businesses are NOT required to disclose their practices to the police, and can refuse service to anyone.

FACTIONS OF THE NEC

The Occupiers: HYDRA is the primary global occupier in the NEC. Imposed a brutal, exploitative capitalist economy with a hands-off government on the city. The second occupying power is the UN, who is currently doing a shitty run of things.

Kingdom of Mars: The UFO that sits above Necropolis as well as DUSA houses a Martian King and his personal army; one of the two kings that keep the Earth under their control.

The Promethean Society: An international organization of superscientists created by the famed scientist Lupe Altena, dedicated to saving the human race. They are DUSA’s only trump card when it comes to global affairs.

HYDRA: The five largest companies in the world who have headquartered in South Gate.

The League: An underworld organized criminal network that spans the entirety of the east coast. In layman’s terms, they’re the mob. The superpowered mob. They can also be known as “The Nightmarket” although this refers to an entirely different subset of criminals.

Military Police/NEC Peace Officers: The police in the NEC, divided between the foreign power-funded gendarmerie and the civilian forces. Both are deeply corrupt and ineffective, yet their authority is unquestioned (well. The military is at least).

AMAD: Anti Martian and anti mutant activists who argue against their very existence. Have recently begun dabbling in terrorism.

Early BirdTM: the people responsible for cleaning up biohazards in the city, which mostly come from Chimera detonations….they’ve recently been given the authority to arrest or even kill Chimera if necessary.

[silvana2001]

Facts about hippos:

1.- . Hippos are most active at night. 

These animals are not considered nocturnal; most hippos' foraging and activity happen at night.

2.- They produce their sunblock

Hippos have adapted the ability to produce a red, oily liquid that acts as a natural sunblock.   

3.- Hippos can identify friends from enemies 

Fascinatingly, hippos can identify a friend from a foe by smelling their poop. This will tell them if what is around the area could be considered a friend or threat. 

4.- Hippos are the third largest land mammals on Earth after elephants and white rhinos.

5.- . Hippos are a threatened animal. 

Human activity is the primary cause of why these animals are considered "threatened." 

https://www.worldanimalprotection.us/blogs/10-interesting-facts-know-about-hippos

Facts about technological images:

1.- Apple watch: The steel watch is allergy-free 

Apple uses surgical steel over a regular grade due to many people suffering allergies. 

https://www.macworld.com/article/668480/10-amazing-apple-watch-facts.html

2.- Audi car: Audi was the first company to crash-test their cars

Audi's engineers simply rolled the cars down a hill in front of spectators.

https://www.jardinemotors.co.uk/audi/news/did-you-know-these-five-unusual-facts-about-audi/

3.- Apple iPhone: The iPhone was not the first smartphone in the world. IBM's Simon, released in 1994, was the first smartphone. 

https://applescoop.org/story/15-fascinating-facts-about-the-apple-iphone

4.- Robots: 1980 was the "eye-opener" for the robot industry.

The car industry was the first market for robots in their early stages of development. 

https://facts.net/robot-facts/

5.- Headphones: Nathaniel Baldwin began manufacturing the first modern headphones in 1910 but didn't patent his invention.

https://medium.com/@Coppertino/10-facts-about-headphones-9ded48d6e075

Attendance Prompt:

"One observer wrote that in the year 1587 alone, around 144,000 pounds or 72 tons of cochineal were shipped from Lima to Spain . (This is roughly 10,080,000,000 insects.)" - page #142

Being from Lima - Peru, I had no idea that my country's economy depended so much on this famous insect many years ago. Even the death of one of our Inca leaders is linked to this insect that created so much conflict in the past. It is ironic to think that the Spanish conquered Peru not only for its wealth in minerals but also for the abundant existence of this insect.