Steven Harper's Blog, page 52
November 4, 2019
Albion Meet and Greet
The role of political spouse doesn't come easily for me. I'm always afraid I'll say something wrong or inappropriate. And the people who put on these functions never, ever tell spouses what their role is, so I have to make it up as I go. I've become aware that my biggest function is to build Darwin up in public. (Fortunately, this isn't difficult, since Darwin's many fine qualities become fast evident anyway.) I become his sort-of wing man.
We checked into the hotel--a brand new Marriott smack in the middle of downtown--and trotted over to the meet-and-greet, which was held in a storefront that was recently converted by Albion College into a kind of office space and community center. To my surprise, the place was packed. There must have been over 100 people there at any given time. I was surprised because in most towns, the citizens don't even know they have a city manager, let alone show up to a sort of pre-interview for one.
Here I need to remind everyone that Darwin and I are a same-sex couple. Long ago, I learned to introduce myself with, "Hi! I'm Steven Piziks, Darwin's husband." Before I started doing that, people often thought I was a strange little hanger-on. I still find I'm bracing myself for a bad reaction, but in all the time I've been doing this, I've only had one. Just about everyone simply smiles and nods. Occasionally there's a tiny pause while they rearrange synapses, but nothing major. The sole exception I'll explain in a minute.
At the meet-and-greet, the handshaking began the moment we walked in. We met various city councilors, business people, "ordinary" citizens, representatives from the college, reporters, and more. The other three candidates were there as well. Despite my reticence about attending these events, I've gotten good at them. Decades of teaching and years of shmoozing at SF conventions have taught me how to work a crowd. Later, Darwin observed, "People are drawn to you, Steven. Have you noticed that?" I said I haven't--everyone is there to see Darwin, not me. But he maintains that I'm better at this side of the job than he is anyway. So we make a good team.
A group of people quickly gathered around Darwin. After a while, I ended up stationed next to him, where I kept the line moving. After Darwin had talked to a particular person for a minute or two, I turned to the person next in line, shook hands, and started a conversation. This would signal Darwin and the other person that someone was waiting, and they would draw their talk to a close so Darwin could start in with the next person.
At one point, one of the other candidates introduced himself to me, talked for a bit, then started asking some rather probing questions about Darwin and his background. I spotted that for what it was, gave a couple non-committal answers, and switched things around by asking him questions about himself. This worked. He launched into an explanation of himself and his family and forgot all about his "spy" mission. Meanwhile, I later relayed everything he said back to Darwin. Of course.
The mayor gave a little speech and announced each of the candidates would now stand up and tell a little about themselves, followed by questions from the citizens. The citizens had the chance to fill out comment cards about each candidate for the council.
I have to say that out of the four candidates, Darwin clearly stood out. He was calm and poised and articulate. He gave specific examples and ideas about how he could help Albion and made it clear he'd done extensive research into the town. When we visited Albion the first time, several people we talked to complained about Albion's woes--little downtown activity, small town blight, and so on. Darwin pointed out that previous Albion administrations wanted to restore the city by bringing back the factories, but Darwin firmly stated that this would not work. The factories aren't coming back, he said, and Albion needs to look to the future and capitalize on its other resources--the college, the rivers, the recreational opportunities, the knowledge economy, and more. This brought nods and murmurs of approval all around the room.
And then Darwin dropped the bomb. He said, "I was eating at the Little Red Lunchbox and I talked to Sue."
The citizens applauded and roared. I shot a glance at the other candidates who were waiting to speak, and I could see the "oh, damn" moment cross their faces. I later told Darwin that I was taking full credit for that one because he ate at the Lunchbox only after I made him. I'm dying to know how many of them mentioned the incident on their comment cards.
In the morning, Darwin put on his interview suit and walked from the hotel to city hall for the interview while I packed up the room and found breakfast for us. He came back and reported that the interview had gone very well. Later, we watched the videos of the interviews on-line and agreed that Darwin would get the job.
That was when the complications arose.
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Albion and Sue
We arrived in town, dropped our bags at our room, and set out to explore. The very wide main street, lined by many empty storefronts, is paved with bricks--an Albion tradition. It was a blazing hot summer day, and the main street runs east-west, meaning it was unshaded, and we worked up a sweat checking out the buildings, the businesses, and the river.
The Kalamazoo River creates three forks in Albion, which as I said, made the city attractive to mills and factories. Now, the rivers have decreased in importance, though the biggest event of the year is the Festival of the Forks, a street fair that several people we met mentioned to us. "You have to come to the Festival of the Forks," everyone said. We explored multiple parks along the river and found several sites where mills once sat, but now have nothing but foundation stones and a dam. The combination of river and parks are actually very pretty and pleasant, especially on a summer day in July.
We visited the downtown library, poked our heads into a few businesses, and explored the residential areas. Housing in Albion makes a strange patchwork. There's no "poor" and "rich" section of town. Instead, everything is all mixed up. Lovely, well-maintained Victorian mansions sit next to decaying homes. Several areas have vacant lots which are generally well-mowed, but which clearly used to have houses on them. A common practice is for a city to tear down a condemned house and offer the plot to a neighbor for a dollar so the city doesn't have to maintain the spot. This drives Darwin crazy because it makes for bad fiscal policy--the vacant plot doesn't add to tax revenue, and no new houses go up to replace the condemned ones. He said he'd definitely put a stop to that if he got hired.
Lunchtime arrived, and we hunted for food. We passed a garage-sized place called The Little Red Lunchbox. Darwin was leery, even though he generally likes little diners, but I said I didn't want to drive forever to find somewhere else, so we went in.
The Lunchbox is a tiny place with no tables or booths. Instead, there's a U-shaped counter with stools. Deliberately silly decor signs and bric-a-brac dot the walls, along with family photos. A 1950s fridge sits in the corner. The top of the U points toward the kitchen, which is ruled by the owner Sue. When you come in, Sue is usually at the grill in back, and she shouts at you to grab a drink from the fridge and take your damn seat. The fridge is filled with cans of pop. Eventually she bustles out and demands to know what you want. If you aren't sure, she'll tell you what you want and make it for you. When Darwin ordered an omelette (his favorite lunch) but refused the accompanying potatoes, Sue bullied him mercilessly. "You don't like what I make?" she griped. "I only use the best ingredients. Those eggs came from a farm up the road, and that ham is from his neighbor who raises pigs. No better ham in the country!"
Sue never writes down an order. She listens to your choices or makes them for you, trots back to the tiny kitchen, and brings it out when it's done. When it's time to pay, she just tells you your total. I got the impression that if she doesn't like you, she adds a surcharge.
The counter precludes a quiet or private meal. You end up facing other people, which pulls you into talking. It's more like eating in someone's home dining room than a restaurant. If conversation falters, Sue pops out of the kitchen, leans a hip on the counter, and moves things along. She hands out puzzles and little games and challenges people to finish them before their meal comes out. She introduces people. "That's Herbert. He runs the garage downtown. His dog died last week, so be nice to him. That's Tony. Don't bring up politics with him because he'll never shut up if you do. Eat those eggs before they're cold, hon."
The place was fairly busy when we were there. At one point, a teenage boy came in and gave Sue a hug. "Can I have a hamburger, Grandma?" he said. Sue said that of course he could, and she plopped one on the grill.
Darwin instantly fell in love with the place. This became important later.
One morning at the downtown bakery, I noticed a burly man wearing an Albion Malleable T-shirt. I pointed it out to Darwin, and the man noticed. He was a gregarious person, and he introduced himself as "Junior." Turned out he had recently opened a restaurant/brewery and named it Albion Malleable after the old foundry. He gave Darwin a crash course in local businesses and we promised to come check the place out. I think he figured we were just being polite, but a couple hours later, we went down there to eat. It's the kind of place =I= like, with a stark wood interior and funky sandwich choices. Junior is a force of nature, rushing around and putting his hand into a dozen civic projects. He's third-generation Albionite, and you can tell he loves the town.
We drove home. The interviews were the following weekend. It was a two-day affair, with a public meet-and-greet Friday evening, when any citizen who cared to could show up to shake hands with the various city manager candidates. The formal interviews were set for Saturday morning.
More . . .
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Albion Call
Albion is a small town of about 8,500 people located at a fork in the Kalamazoo River. The abundant access to water power attracted mills and foundries to the little town, and by the turn of the 20th century, it had set itself up as a major manufacturing center. By the 1950s it had become one of the most successful manufacturing towns in Michigan. The biggest part of this was the Albion Malleable Iron Company, which occupied several acres of land at the edge of town and employed thousands of workers. A great many of these were African-Americans, lured up from the South with promises of work. Albion became a multi-cultural city before it was fashionable.
The town is also known for Albion College, a prestigious educational center with a sizeable campus just north of town.
But a series of economic crashes hit the mills and foundries hard. Albion Malleable shut down in the 60s. One by one, the other manufacturers shut down, throwing thousands out of work. A lot of people left, and the ones who stayed on tried to eke out a living at the two or three small factories that remained. Beautiful houses fell into disrepair. Schools closed. Eventually, Albion was forced to combine its school system with nearby Marshall, a serious blow to Albion's pride and something the Albionites still lament.
The downtown emptied of stores, and the beautiful 19th century buildings fell into decay. Attempts were made to revitalize the place, but they fell short, and Albion began sputtering slowly down a disastrous spiral.
When Darwin got the offer to interview, he dove into a flurry of research. When Darwin interviews for a job, he looks into everything. He reads every city document on-line, he watches countless hours of city council meetings, he researches history, news, economics, and more. He goes over the budget with a fine-toothed comb. And he forms an action plan to improve the city.
Darwin and I also visited the town. Albion is about 80 minutes from Wherever, which meant if he got the job, we'd have to activate the retirement plan, so I was looking around with an to what it might be like to live there. I grew up near the small village of Breckenridge, Michigan, and Albion reminded me a little of that place, if Breckenridge had also had a small college attached to it. The town is surrounded by fields of corn and soy, and the closest city of any size is Battle Creek, a 20 minute drive away.
We arrived in town, dropped our bags at our room, and set out to explore. The very wide main street, lined by many empty storefronts, is paved with bricks--an Albion tradition. It was a blazing hot summer day, and the main street runs east-west, meaning it was unshaded, and we worked up a sweat checking out the buildings, the businesses, and the river.
The Kalamazoo River creates three forks in Albion, which as I said, made the city attractive to mills and factories. Now, the rivers have decreased in importance, though the biggest event of the year is the Festival of the Forks, a street fair that several people we met mentioned to us. "You have to come to the Festival of the Forks," everyone said. We explored multiple parks along the river and found several sites where mills once sat, but now have nothing but foundation stones and a dam. The combination of river and parks are actually very pretty and pleasant, especially on a summer day in July.
We visited the downtown library, poked our heads into a few businesses, and explored the residential areas. Housing in Albion makes a strange patchwork. There's no "poor" and "rich" section of town. Instead, everything is all mixed up. Lovely, well-maintained Victorian mansions sit next to decaying homes. Several areas have vacant lots which are generally well-mowed, but which clearly used to have houses on them. A common practice is for a city to tear down a condemned house and offer the plot to a neighbor for a dollar so the city doesn't have to maintain the spot. This drives Darwin crazy because it makes for bad fiscal policy--the vacant plot doesn't add to tax revenue, and no new houses go up to replace the condemned ones. He said he'd definitely put a stop to that if he got hired.
Lunchtime arrived, and we hunted for food. We passed a garage-sized place called The Little Red Lunchbox. Darwin was leery, even though he generally likes little diners, but I said I didn't want to drive forever to find somewhere else, so we went in.
More . . .
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November 1, 2019
Darwin's Job
You can look it up in the papers, and the papers usually have chunks of it wrong. Here's what happened:
Darwin's police chief in Ypsilanti left, which meant Darwin had to hire someone new. He farmed out the initial selection process to a company that deals with such things. They winnowed through the applicants and turned a handful back to him for interviews. One of those was a lieutenant in the Ypsilanti Fire Department. The Ypsilanti city charter specifically prohibits the council from having input in hiring practices. That's the sole responsibility of the city manager. But more than once council member illegally let Darwin know they wanted the internal candidate as the new hire. The internal candidate, however, was absolutely not qualified for the job. He didn't have the required education background, and he additionally had failed to complete course work he had promised to do years earlier. Darwin also found irregularities in his application. Meanwhile, a candidate from Livonia applied who had the education, background, and experience the job required. Darwin offered him the job. He accepted and signed the contract.
The internal candidate was black. The Livonia candidate was white. The councilors who were pressing Darwin to hire the internal candidate were black.
The city council, in a hastily-called closed meeting, told Darwin that he could either resign or be fired. Officially, he resigned, but we all know it means they fired him.
Darwin and I were both extremely upset. The city I had lived in for twenty years and which Darwin had come to love had fired him for racist reasons. I've now become so angry at the council that I can't consider living in Ypsilanti again. It also ended our friendship with the city's mayor, who refused to stand up for Darwin. I can't stand the sight of her, and she should hang her head in shame.
However, Darwin negotiated a separation settlement from Ypsilanti. The council resisted at first, but in the end they knew that if Darwin sued them for discrimination and for violation of contract, they'd lose, and badly. So they handed it over.
Darwin started a job hunt right away. Several weeks went by, but he got no nibbles from the applications he sent out. He was getting worried that fallout from Ypsilanti was following him, despite the fact that he had fielded several phone calls from people in city management who told him flat-out that everyone in the municipal community knew Ypsilanti had treated him badly. I told him the lack of calls arose from it being summer time--too many people on vacation to get much done. Still, he worried.
In the meantime, he hung around the house. This was strangely difficult. I love Darwin deeply, but having him home every minute was strangely wearing. It did mean we could eat supper at a decent hour (Darwin often gets home after 7:00 PM, making it difficult to eat together), but he was a relentless presence around the house, and it wasn't something I was used to. I began to understand stay-at-home wives who spent their entire marriage alone during the day in an arrangement that made everyone happy until the husband retired and found himself not knowing what to do with himself all day at home. Such husbands are notorious for following their wives around like lost puppies, driving everyone nuts until a new equilibrium is established. Darwin didn't follow me around all summer, but he was indeed around all the time, and neither of us quite knew how to respond to that.
Darwin applied at some places in our general area. He also applied at places farther away, and even some that were out-of-state. One city in Connecticut expressed a great deal of interest in him as a candidate, and they were enthusiastic to the point that we were eyeing houses and working out logistics, and then suddenly all contact with them ended. Weeks and weeks went by. Nothing. They hadn't hired anyone else, either. (Several months later, they finally hired an internal candidate, but they still never contacted Darwin again.)
Our plan, if Darwin got a job far away, was that he would move to the new town and I would stay in Wherever until Max graduated, since he's in his senior year. Then I would take an early retirement, sell the house, and move out with him.
The summer passed slowly. I went on the exchange trip to Germany and returned. Still no interviews or offers. Right around the time Darwin was getting seriously unhappy, he got a call to interview in Albion.
More coming . . .
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October 21, 2019
Speaking in Ann Arbor
I gave my interactive workshop about avoiding cliches. I use Google Slides with Pear Deck, which makes the show interactive. Yesterday evening, however, when I was booting up my laptop to download the slides to it, my laptop totally crashed. And burned. And exploded. And disintegrated. Yipes!
Darwin has TWO laptops, so I grabbed one of those. It asked for a fingerprint or password. I don't have the fingerprint, and I don't know the password. I called Darwin to ask--he's out of town this week--and he said he had no idea what the password is, since he always uses the fingerprint. The other laptop is for his job, and he didn't feel it was a good idea to let me use it. Well, great.
So today I grabbed my own work laptop from my desk and brought it home. It's a pain to disconnect and reconnect everything (seriously--it's easier to disconnect Brainiac from his spaceship), but I had little choice.
The workshop ("The Paradox of Cliches") was held in the meeting room at Crazy Wisdom Bookstore. I love Crazy Wisdom. It's the best bookstore in the whole world. It smells of incense, sage, and paper, and in addition to selling an amazing selection of books, it sells the most wonderful collection of Pagan and New Age and Wiccan and Buddhist and Hindu and Every Other Spirituality Stuff. Little goddess statues and mediation tools and prayer bells and tea sets and home made soap and . . . and . . . and . . . It's my favorite store in Ann Arbor, and it's always a joy to return there.
Upstairs, CW has a tea shop and a meeting room. I trotted upstairs with my borrowed laptop and found Cliff, the event coordinator. In a few minutes, we'd connected my laptop to a projector while participants wandered in. There were about 15 or so people, a nice turnout. I got Slides going, and started up.
It was awful. Seriously. I was way off my game. I stuttered and stammered and blithered. I couldn't seem to focus or keep myself together. I got through it somehow. The Q&A afterward generated several questions, which usually means people were listening, and several people told me they enjoyed it and learned a lot, but I was feeling like I should have been a great deal better. I told myself on the way back to the car that everyone gets a misfire now and then. Still, I dissected my performance mercilessly and made a list of what to do better next time.
At least I got to shop at Crazy Wisdom.
Then I called Darwin to make myself feel better, got home, and made a smoothie. :)
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Cooking in Germany
We have more of my journal from Germany last July:
COOKING WITH FRIENDS
As I’ve occasionally (only occasionally) mentioned in this journal, I enjoy cooking. When Christina and her then-boyfriend (now fiancé) Timo stayed with us during the American end of the exchange, it turned out Christina was an avid cook as well, and we shared dinner-making chores, teaching other different recipes from our respective countries. [Ed., Christina and Timo are now married. Yay! It's been wonderful seeing their relationship progress from dating to engaged to married.]
Now that I’m in Germany, Christina invited me over to cook together at her and Timo’s place, and I avidly accepted.
But first I had to get there.
Our plan was simple. I’d hop the train for their apartment and be there around 6:00. Timo gets home from work at about 7:00, so we’d have time to hit the grocery store and get supper going before he arrived.
None of us counted on a very sad stranger.
A woman whose name wasn’t released to the press was apparently suffering from deep depression, because she jumped from a bridge over a set of tracks and died immediately. An entire section of the railway shut down so the authorities could handle the situation.
At the time, I knew nothing about this. I only knew that the train stopped at one station and stayed there. Eventually, the conductor announced we all had to disembark due to a problem on the tracks.
Grumbling and muttering, all the passengers left the train. I was barely halfway to my destination and had no idea how to get there. I texted Christina to update her, and she offered to come get me.
I waited patiently. In America, I’m generally an impatient waiter. Hey, I’m a busy guy and every moment I spend waiting is wasted, right? But in Europe, I turn into a patient waiter. I’m perfectly content to examine sewer gratings or count subway bricks. Then I get back to America, and I’m impatient again.
At last Christina arrived. We’d already run into each other several times at school, but we still hugged in greeting, and it was a joy to see her again. Still, we were considerably behind on our schedule. I had planned to make Phony Lasagna, a sort-of lasagna casserole that’s a family favorite, but it’s a 90-minute project at least. Christina and I headed into a grocery store to discuss the matter.
Another switch for me: at home, I loathe grocery shopping. I hate everything about it, from planning the menu to making the list to fighting the crowd to putting groceries away at home. But in Germany, grocery shopping becomes fun. The store is full of interesting and unfamiliar products, or ways to present products. I scamper around the store like Rikki Tikki Tavi on speed, examining everything in chef mode. The milk has a different percentage of fat than in America. The variety of cheese is much wider. Check out these odd vegetable combinations in the canned section. And CHOCOLATE!
After some discussion, Christina and I decided to make chili. We selected ingredients—yes, we put meat in ours—and I double-checked with her for a spice list. She had everything we needed in that category already. She suggested putting corn in the chili, which isn’t normally an ingredient for me, but I agreed to it, and why not?
Just as we were leaving, Timo called. He was stuck in the same shutdown and was, in fact, at the same station I had been stranded at half an hour ago. However, the transportation system was sending a series of special buses to route people around the problem area, so no need to come get him.
Since Christina had taught me some German recipes back home, it was my turn to teach her my chili recipe. My secret ingredient is a big dash of curry with a fair amount of pepper. Christina worked on a custard dessert with a chocolate center. We had a great time, cooking and chatting and catching up. (I got to see her wedding dress, which Timo, of course, hadn’t seen at all.)
At last Timo arrived. He had a deep suntan, to my surprise—last fall he’d been very fair. More hugs and happy chatter! A lot of it was about their upcoming wedding, which is taking place in a castle, and their honeymoon in Greece.
The chili finally finished. I served it with a cheese plate and some interesting spiced crackers Christina found at the store. It was all delicious. Christina and Timo were enthusiastic. The chocolate/custard dessert was a perfect sweet end after the spicy chili.
We talked quite a lot and killed a bottle Diet Coke among us. (Wine? Pff!) They actually had ice (!!!), and I got my caffeine as cold as I like it.
In the end, I had to get back “home,” and Timo offered to drive me so we could talk a little more, too, and that was very fine. It was a wonderful evening of cooking with friends, and exactly what an exchange is supposed to be about.
COOKING FOR FRIENDS
Since I’m staying with JK and AK and they feed me regularly, I felt I should cook for them at least once. I thought I’d make for them something fun and new. In this case, my weirdo combination of cordon bleu and chicken Kiev.
“I will need to be a little rude,” I joked, “and rifle your kitchen to see what equipment you have.”
This also started with a trip to the grocery store and inspired more Rikkti Tikki Tavi scampering about, this time assembling bread crumbs and chicken breasts and cucumbers and corn (which I couldn’t find frozen; only canned, for some reason). Earlier that day, I had already visited a street farmer’s market and picked up potatoes.
In the kitchen, I set to work. It was interesting and fun to use someone else’s kitchen to cook in. AK got home from work in the middle of it and asked when supper would be ready. When I told him it would be about half an hour, he looked a bit surprised, but AK does most of the cooking in the household, and he often doesn’t get home from work until seven or later, so they’re used to eating at eight or even nine—quite normal in Germany, but a little startling to Americans.
I discovered the chicken breasts (pre-packaged) weren’t in large pieces as they usually come in America, but were a lot of much smaller fillets. This only stymied me for a moment—I decided on the spot to make a whole bunch of smaller servings than fewer large ones.
I oiled the chicken fillets with sunflower oil and rolled them around cheese and ham, then rolled =that= in breadcrumbs. They went into the oven (carefully checked for Celsius temperature). After that, I boiled and mashed the potatoes (their set of beaters caused me some consternation, but I got it sorted out) and made Ukrainian salad out of cucumbers, sunflower oil, and salt, then heated the corn.
Everything came out deliciously, and AK and JK were very impressed. It was fun!
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October 11, 2019
More Heidelberg
MORE HEIDELBERG
After finishing Darwin's family research at the Heidelberg University library, I joined up with the students for a nice tour on a solar-powered boat down the river. We coasted by wonderful old houses and flats that dated back hundreds of years. And we visited the baboon on the bridge. The main bridge in Heidelberg has always had a statue of a monkey and two mice on it. No one knows why. The animals have been destroyed (by accident or design) several times, but they always get replaced. The baboon is . . .er. . .obviously male, a tradition of the bridge baboons. The baboon is holding a mirror because reasons, and if you touch it, you’ll be in for money. Touch the mice for fertility, and the baboon’s fingers for good luck. In older times, you touched the baboon’s male attributes for luck, but that’s changed in more recent times.
I also visited the Lutheran church in the center of the city. European city churches are always huge, echoing, vaulted spaces, and this one was plainly done. The Catholics go in for heavy ornament, but the Protestants are more plain. They go for while walls, an uncovered blocky altar with a few carvings on the corners, and wooden chairs instead of pews.
This particular church let you climb the tower for a two Euro donation. I paid it and headed up, up, up a one-person spiral staircase. This took me to the choir loft, where I found a touch of whimsy—a three-foot-tall Lego figure of Martin Luther, holding a plastic quill and brandishing his list of theses.
To continue, I had to cross the loft to another spiral staircase that went up, up, up to another loft with a tiny chapel in it that included for unknown reasons a life-sized crucifix. (This was a Protestant church, remember.) I crossed to yet another staircase that went up, up, up, up and UP. The ceiling came down so low, I had to crouch. And then I was through a small iron gate and on a balcony that ran round the top of the church, just below the bells. The entire city of Heidelberg stretched out far, far below. The Ruin looked down from above, and the mountains lay in the further distance. It was magnificent, and it’s what I love doing most in Europe.
Back downstairs, I bought some fantastic German ice cream and window shopped until it was time to go home.
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September 13, 2019
Grave Matters
https://www.smh.com.au/world/europe/hand-holding-lovers-of-modena-skeletons-are-male-20190913-p52qx4.html
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stevenpiziks @ 2019-09-13T18:42:00
https://www.smh.com.au/world/europe/hand-holding-lovers-of-modena-skeletons-are-male-20190913-p52qx4.html
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September 8, 2019
Ghosts!
What happens when a necromancer gets woke?
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