A small tool to view real-world ActivityPub objects as JSON! Enter a URL
or username from Mastodon or a similar service below, and we'll send a
request with
the right
Accept
header
to the server to view the underlying object.
{
"@context": "https://www.w3.org/ns/activitystreams",
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"actor": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/896982422900449282",
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"attributedTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/896982422900449282",
"content": "Completely awesome, really well drawn comic on Big Tech and censorship, complete with adorable bunnies!<br /><br /><a href=\"https://www.hummingfluff.com/lovelypeoplecomic.html\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.hummingfluff.com/lovelypeoplecomic.html</a>",
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"published": "2021-03-25T20:46:49+00:00",
"source": {
"content": "Completely awesome, really well drawn comic on Big Tech and censorship, complete with adorable bunnies!\n\nhttps://www.hummingfluff.com/lovelypeoplecomic.html",
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"content": "I especially love this story because it's the worst kind of news.<br /><br />Max fear-mongering: Virus variant is twice as deadly! Fear! FEAR!<br /><br />Left completely unsaid is that the normal covid variant only has a rate of death of a quarter of a percent. That's 0.25 percent of dying. That ain't a \"pandemic.\"<br /><br />AND the headline is WRONG. We're dealing with such small numbers that 0.41 percent is not double the rate of death. 0.5 percent, one-half a percent, would be. 0.4 is significantly lower than 0.5, if it's significant at all.<br /><br />All of this is what is wrong with the media today.<br /><br /><a href=\"https://www.rt.com/uk/517717-britain-covid19-deadly-variant/\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.rt.com/uk/517717-britain-covid19-deadly-variant/</a>",
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"url": "https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1216459206231461888",
"published": "2021-03-10T18:54:35+00:00",
"source": {
"content": "I especially love this story because it's the worst kind of news.\n\nMax fear-mongering: Virus variant is twice as deadly! Fear! FEAR!\n\nLeft completely unsaid is that the normal covid variant only has a rate of death of a quarter of a percent. That's 0.25 percent of dying. That ain't a \"pandemic.\"\n\nAND the headline is WRONG. We're dealing with such small numbers that 0.41 percent is not double the rate of death. 0.5 percent, one-half a percent, would be. 0.4 is significantly lower than 0.5, if it's significant at all.\n\nAll of this is what is wrong with the media today.\n\nhttps://www.rt.com/uk/517717-britain-covid19-deadly-variant/",
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"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/896982422900449282/entities/urn:activity:1216459206231461888/activity"
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"content": "Kid Awesome crawled up behind them. “Son of a bitch! It is him!” <br /><br />Corona winced. Alex was screaming, though whether it was due to anger or deafness, she couldn’t guess. “Who?”<br /><br />“Bucky fucking Bennington!” He jumped up suddenly, heedless of the danger and boiling with rage. “I saw you, you cheating prick! You cost the Highlanders their twenty-fifth championship!”<br /><br />“Cry about it, cunt!” The Slurve hurried along another fletched dart with his telekinesis. It swerved in mid-air and would have buried itself in Alex’s neck if a tiny Japanese girl with reflective sunglasses hadn’t jumped in front of it. The air sparked and the blunted dart dropped to the ground. <br /><br />Albedo eyed Kid Awesome smugly. “Looks like your Badass Normal powers are on the fritz.” <br /><br />“Just get me close to him,” Kid Awesome shouted, “and he’ll be pitching in the Paralympics.”<br /><br />Albedo appears in the East End Irregulars books by Michael A. and Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio. <br /><br />You can start reading East End Irregulars stories FREE at: <a href=\"https://heroicadventurefiction.com/tough-gig/\" target=\"_blank\">https://heroicadventurefiction.com/tough-gig/</a><br /><br />This drawing was done by Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio (me) as part of a 3 marker Copic marker challenge. ",
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"published": "2021-03-09T20:30:39+00:00",
"source": {
"content": "Kid Awesome crawled up behind them. “Son of a bitch! It is him!” \n\nCorona winced. Alex was screaming, though whether it was due to anger or deafness, she couldn’t guess. “Who?”\n\n“Bucky fucking Bennington!” He jumped up suddenly, heedless of the danger and boiling with rage. “I saw you, you cheating prick! You cost the Highlanders their twenty-fifth championship!”\n\n“Cry about it, cunt!” The Slurve hurried along another fletched dart with his telekinesis. It swerved in mid-air and would have buried itself in Alex’s neck if a tiny Japanese girl with reflective sunglasses hadn’t jumped in front of it. The air sparked and the blunted dart dropped to the ground. \n\nAlbedo eyed Kid Awesome smugly. “Looks like your Badass Normal powers are on the fritz.” \n\n“Just get me close to him,” Kid Awesome shouted, “and he’ll be pitching in the Paralympics.”\n\nAlbedo appears in the East End Irregulars books by Michael A. and Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio. \n\nYou can start reading East End Irregulars stories FREE at: https://heroicadventurefiction.com/tough-gig/\n\nThis drawing was done by Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio (me) as part of a 3 marker Copic marker challenge. ",
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"content": "I hate New York, and I’ve put on enough shows there for that to mean something.<br /><br />Like any place, it has its high points—Duke’s Smorgasbord and my favorite cathouse on 49th, for example—but overall it’s too crowded, the people are rude, and it smells like a dump. If it ever had any charm, it ran out long before I was born. All the old, glorious architecture was erased over a century of warfare and what they raised in its place was a monument to the death of aesthetics. Broadway was a bore. Anyway, once you’ve played Carnegie Hall, you’ll never again be satisfied with just being in the audience. But the worst thing about New York is that something bad always happens to me there, and this time was no different.<br /><br />Matt (that’s Matteo Mancini, a.k.a. the Promethean, to you) was there to check up on the Challenger Foundation’s property. I told him a simple email would suffice, but he said there was some question about whether the newly sovereign city would maintain its “special arrangements” with the Foundation, so he insisted on making the trip in person. I accompanied him in my usual capacity as charismatic, good-looking celebrity, essential for distracting reporters and secretaries while Matt and whatever petite potentate we were visiting slipped off for private discussions. Allen Adams—the Atomic Ranger—was there to be the visible muscle and the butt of my jokes. But as it turned out, there would be need for our more peculiar talents, too.<br /><br />About a week into the trip, the three of us were walking the length of the island, taking a break from all the glad-handing with oily politicians, when the emergency circuit on my phone rang. Knowing that it was the dispatcher from Roundtable, a sort of mutual aid network for superheroes, I turned up the volume so that my colleagues could hear.<br /><br />“Amp, this is Roundtable. Are you still in New York?”<br /><br />“Unfortunately, yes.” I tossed a handful of crackerjacks into the air and failed to catch even one of them.<br /><br />“There’s an emergency call at the Metropolitan Museum. I already alerted the locals, but this might be out of their league. A group of thieves smashed into a secure area and stole an expensive suit of armor called the Prince’s Emblazoned.”<br /><br />I noticed the Promethean’s eyebrow cock at this, but he said nothing, and I didn’t interrupt. Roundtable went on: “No positive IDs on any in the group yet, but we received footage of the attack and there is a woman with green hair who petrified security and bystanders.”<br /><br />“Petrified? Was she one of those ugly body-building women?”<br /><br />Matt shot me a deadly look.<br /><br />“I meant petrified literally,” Roundtable clarified. “They were turned to stone.”<br /><br />“Oh,” I said. “That’s different.”<br /><br />Ever the civic-minded one, Allen volunteered our assistance right away. “We’re on our way, Roundtable!”<br /><br />He started undressing in public, right there in the middle of the Hudson Promenade. An instant later, he was hovering fifteen feet above us, his Life Preserver flashed into “battle colors” and his gold skin glowing like the big, radioactive jerk he was.<br /><br />I was mortified. I was appalled. How did I come to associate with such a person?<br /><br />He smirked down at me. “You still remember how to fight, superstar?”<br /><br />I could only sigh.<br /><br /><br />Continue reading the story at: <a href=\"https://heroicadventurefiction.com/marble-madness/\" target=\"_blank\">https://heroicadventurefiction.com/marble-madness/</a><br /><br />Story by Michael A. and Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio. Art by Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio<br />",
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"published": "2021-03-09T03:58:53+00:00",
"source": {
"content": "I hate New York, and I’ve put on enough shows there for that to mean something.\n\nLike any place, it has its high points—Duke’s Smorgasbord and my favorite cathouse on 49th, for example—but overall it’s too crowded, the people are rude, and it smells like a dump. If it ever had any charm, it ran out long before I was born. All the old, glorious architecture was erased over a century of warfare and what they raised in its place was a monument to the death of aesthetics. Broadway was a bore. Anyway, once you’ve played Carnegie Hall, you’ll never again be satisfied with just being in the audience. But the worst thing about New York is that something bad always happens to me there, and this time was no different.\n\nMatt (that’s Matteo Mancini, a.k.a. the Promethean, to you) was there to check up on the Challenger Foundation’s property. I told him a simple email would suffice, but he said there was some question about whether the newly sovereign city would maintain its “special arrangements” with the Foundation, so he insisted on making the trip in person. I accompanied him in my usual capacity as charismatic, good-looking celebrity, essential for distracting reporters and secretaries while Matt and whatever petite potentate we were visiting slipped off for private discussions. Allen Adams—the Atomic Ranger—was there to be the visible muscle and the butt of my jokes. But as it turned out, there would be need for our more peculiar talents, too.\n\nAbout a week into the trip, the three of us were walking the length of the island, taking a break from all the glad-handing with oily politicians, when the emergency circuit on my phone rang. Knowing that it was the dispatcher from Roundtable, a sort of mutual aid network for superheroes, I turned up the volume so that my colleagues could hear.\n\n“Amp, this is Roundtable. Are you still in New York?”\n\n“Unfortunately, yes.” I tossed a handful of crackerjacks into the air and failed to catch even one of them.\n\n“There’s an emergency call at the Metropolitan Museum. I already alerted the locals, but this might be out of their league. A group of thieves smashed into a secure area and stole an expensive suit of armor called the Prince’s Emblazoned.”\n\nI noticed the Promethean’s eyebrow cock at this, but he said nothing, and I didn’t interrupt. Roundtable went on: “No positive IDs on any in the group yet, but we received footage of the attack and there is a woman with green hair who petrified security and bystanders.”\n\n“Petrified? Was she one of those ugly body-building women?”\n\nMatt shot me a deadly look.\n\n“I meant petrified literally,” Roundtable clarified. “They were turned to stone.”\n\n“Oh,” I said. “That’s different.”\n\nEver the civic-minded one, Allen volunteered our assistance right away. “We’re on our way, Roundtable!”\n\nHe started undressing in public, right there in the middle of the Hudson Promenade. An instant later, he was hovering fifteen feet above us, his Life Preserver flashed into “battle colors” and his gold skin glowing like the big, radioactive jerk he was.\n\nI was mortified. I was appalled. How did I come to associate with such a person?\n\nHe smirked down at me. “You still remember how to fight, superstar?”\n\nI could only sigh.\n\n\nContinue reading the story at: https://heroicadventurefiction.com/marble-madness/\n\nStory by Michael A. and Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio. Art by Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio\n",
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{
"type": "Create",
"actor": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/896982422900449282",
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"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/896982422900449282/entities/urn:activity:1215504286864257024",
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"content": "<a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=prosefinder\" title=\"#prosefinder\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#prosefinder</a><br /><br />Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be a superhero.<br /><br />When I was five years old, I was with my aunt at the bank when the bank got robbed. We didn’t even realize it had happened, but then the cretins wrecked their getaway car and ran back inside, waving guns everywhere. They actually held us hostage. It was nuts! Poor Aunt Carol was hysterical, but I was mad. They kept telling everyone not to look at them even though they wore masks. They were afraid and didn’t want us to notice. But I knew. And I glared at them.<br /><br />Pretty soon the Troubleshooters showed up. And not just any bunch of Troubleshooters, among them was the Target himself. The original.<br /><br />He told them he was going to come in to talk to them. They shouted that he’d better not try it, but Target said he was coming in anyway, and he did. He laid down his pistol outside the front door so they could see it, then he walked in, calm as could be, hands held up. And he smiled at me. The guy had two pistols and a shotgun aimed at him, and he smiled.<br /><br />They’d made a mistake, he told them, but there was no point in making it worse. “You know you can’t get away now, so it’s time to be men and face the consequences.”<br /><br />My right hand to God, those were his exact words.<br /><br />Everyone held their breath. It was so tense, but the Target never flinched.<br /><br />Then the first guy lowered his shotgun and started blubbering an apology. The boss robber screamed at him, but then the third guy dropped his pistol, too. Next thing I knew, Target elbowed their armed boss in the face, knocked the gun out of his hand, and beat the hell out of him.<br /><br />Aunt Carol tried to cover my eyes, but I saw it all, and I never forgot.<br /><br />At first, my folks thought it was cute when I’d say I wanted to be a vigilante. But when I kept saying that into my teens, people started to worry. My priest mocked me, and the preceptors at school told me I was being silly. My parents wagged their fingers, their voices full of disapproval: “Sebastian, they’re as bad as the crooks they go after! Don’t you know how often they get killed?”<br /><br />They were all hypocrites. I knew how they admired the Sentinel. I noticed that look of envy whenever they saw someone zipping across the sky under their own power. I remembered how Aunt Carol got all weak-kneed and doe-eyed when the Target winked at her. And I went on imagining myself immolating vampires like the Flame, or pulling babies out of burning buildings like Web Wonder (before he became a monster).<br /><br />But I knew they were right about one thing: it was a tough gig without special powers, and I didn’t have any. Nobody in my family was a talent either—at least so far as anyone would tell me. Sure, there were non-talent vigilantes and lots of mystery men in days of yore, but making that work was almost impossible. Eventually, I started thinking about other things, even if I never totally put it out of my mind.<br /><br />Then I turned 15, and puberty gave me something besides acne and a fear of tight shorts.<br /><br />A woman at the monorail station left her notebook on the bench next to me. I tried to return it to her, but when I picked it up, I could see and hear and even smell things that I knew weren’t really there. Disconnected memories of thoughts I’d never had buzzed around my skull. It was like living in stereo, one part of me in the terminal, another part of me hitching a ride inside this lady’s brain.<br /><br />A picture of Sebastian receiving a psychometric impression from a lost notebook.<br />I dropped the notebook and those memories went away; when I picked it up again, they came back, too.<br /><br />It’s called Psychometry. If telepathy was the prom queen, psychometry would be her homely sister that nobody ever asks to the dance. You can’t read minds, but you pick up the psychic residue they leave on other objects. Usually, that’s nothing at all, but sometimes the object is associated with something really traumatic (like a murder weapon) or impressed on it by the sheer psychic weight of lots of people (like a public bathroom—yick). The former can be overwhelming while the latter is just a big non-linear jumble of sights and feelings you can’t make sense of.<br /><br />Yeah. I wanted to roll two 10-sided dice and pick a new power from the list, but it doesn’t work that way.<br /><br />Worse, my psychometry was pretty low grade: Talent Level 3 on the modified Lowe-Silence scale. This meant I could consistently pick up the really strong signals, but the rest was a crap shoot. The cute lab tech at Pitt’s Reich Center said that was a blessing. She told me about some big-time sensitives she’d met who had to wear gloves all the time, and a particularly bad case, shrouded in a perpetual bubble of psychic white noise, who wouldn’t communicate with his family anymore.<br /><br />A lab technician tells Sebastian about his psychic abilities, with a depiction of the psychological trauma caused by being too psychically sensitive.<br />But that was no comfort to me. I can’t tell you how frustrated I was knowing that I won the genetic lottery for a $5 jackpot. I was a dud, a spoon-bender, unable even to provoke real curiosity. I was that loser at the bar who tried to impress chicks by wiggling his ears or pretending he’s only 6 years old because he was born on February 29th.<br /><br />For a while, the limit of my ambitions were to fondle towels from the girls’ locker room or contact-snooping on strangers at restaurants. But then I got tired of the cheap voyeurism and attempts to live vicariously through utterly boring people. I told myself: “You know what? Most people don’t even get psychometry. Why not use the gift? Why not be a superhero after all?”<br /><br />I went back to lifting and started running. I read biographies of the greats. Body and mind were harnessed for my true purpose.<br /><br />But then I started to doubt myself. What if everyone was right? What if I got killed? Was I completely crazy?<br /><br />There were a hundred voices who would have talked me out of it. I needed to find the one who would talk me into it.<br /><br />Read this and more of Torrent's adventures for free at<br /><a href=\"https://heroicadventurefiction.com/tough-gig/\" target=\"_blank\">https://heroicadventurefiction.com/tough-gig/</a><br /><br />Text by Michael A. DiBaggio; Art by Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio",
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"url": "https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1215504286864257024",
"published": "2021-03-08T03:40:03+00:00",
"source": {
"content": "#prosefinder\n\nEver since I can remember, I wanted to be a superhero.\n\nWhen I was five years old, I was with my aunt at the bank when the bank got robbed. We didn’t even realize it had happened, but then the cretins wrecked their getaway car and ran back inside, waving guns everywhere. They actually held us hostage. It was nuts! Poor Aunt Carol was hysterical, but I was mad. They kept telling everyone not to look at them even though they wore masks. They were afraid and didn’t want us to notice. But I knew. And I glared at them.\n\nPretty soon the Troubleshooters showed up. And not just any bunch of Troubleshooters, among them was the Target himself. The original.\n\nHe told them he was going to come in to talk to them. They shouted that he’d better not try it, but Target said he was coming in anyway, and he did. He laid down his pistol outside the front door so they could see it, then he walked in, calm as could be, hands held up. And he smiled at me. The guy had two pistols and a shotgun aimed at him, and he smiled.\n\nThey’d made a mistake, he told them, but there was no point in making it worse. “You know you can’t get away now, so it’s time to be men and face the consequences.”\n\nMy right hand to God, those were his exact words.\n\nEveryone held their breath. It was so tense, but the Target never flinched.\n\nThen the first guy lowered his shotgun and started blubbering an apology. The boss robber screamed at him, but then the third guy dropped his pistol, too. Next thing I knew, Target elbowed their armed boss in the face, knocked the gun out of his hand, and beat the hell out of him.\n\nAunt Carol tried to cover my eyes, but I saw it all, and I never forgot.\n\nAt first, my folks thought it was cute when I’d say I wanted to be a vigilante. But when I kept saying that into my teens, people started to worry. My priest mocked me, and the preceptors at school told me I was being silly. My parents wagged their fingers, their voices full of disapproval: “Sebastian, they’re as bad as the crooks they go after! Don’t you know how often they get killed?”\n\nThey were all hypocrites. I knew how they admired the Sentinel. I noticed that look of envy whenever they saw someone zipping across the sky under their own power. I remembered how Aunt Carol got all weak-kneed and doe-eyed when the Target winked at her. And I went on imagining myself immolating vampires like the Flame, or pulling babies out of burning buildings like Web Wonder (before he became a monster).\n\nBut I knew they were right about one thing: it was a tough gig without special powers, and I didn’t have any. Nobody in my family was a talent either—at least so far as anyone would tell me. Sure, there were non-talent vigilantes and lots of mystery men in days of yore, but making that work was almost impossible. Eventually, I started thinking about other things, even if I never totally put it out of my mind.\n\nThen I turned 15, and puberty gave me something besides acne and a fear of tight shorts.\n\nA woman at the monorail station left her notebook on the bench next to me. I tried to return it to her, but when I picked it up, I could see and hear and even smell things that I knew weren’t really there. Disconnected memories of thoughts I’d never had buzzed around my skull. It was like living in stereo, one part of me in the terminal, another part of me hitching a ride inside this lady’s brain.\n\nA picture of Sebastian receiving a psychometric impression from a lost notebook.\nI dropped the notebook and those memories went away; when I picked it up again, they came back, too.\n\nIt’s called Psychometry. If telepathy was the prom queen, psychometry would be her homely sister that nobody ever asks to the dance. You can’t read minds, but you pick up the psychic residue they leave on other objects. Usually, that’s nothing at all, but sometimes the object is associated with something really traumatic (like a murder weapon) or impressed on it by the sheer psychic weight of lots of people (like a public bathroom—yick). The former can be overwhelming while the latter is just a big non-linear jumble of sights and feelings you can’t make sense of.\n\nYeah. I wanted to roll two 10-sided dice and pick a new power from the list, but it doesn’t work that way.\n\nWorse, my psychometry was pretty low grade: Talent Level 3 on the modified Lowe-Silence scale. This meant I could consistently pick up the really strong signals, but the rest was a crap shoot. The cute lab tech at Pitt’s Reich Center said that was a blessing. She told me about some big-time sensitives she’d met who had to wear gloves all the time, and a particularly bad case, shrouded in a perpetual bubble of psychic white noise, who wouldn’t communicate with his family anymore.\n\nA lab technician tells Sebastian about his psychic abilities, with a depiction of the psychological trauma caused by being too psychically sensitive.\nBut that was no comfort to me. I can’t tell you how frustrated I was knowing that I won the genetic lottery for a $5 jackpot. I was a dud, a spoon-bender, unable even to provoke real curiosity. I was that loser at the bar who tried to impress chicks by wiggling his ears or pretending he’s only 6 years old because he was born on February 29th.\n\nFor a while, the limit of my ambitions were to fondle towels from the girls’ locker room or contact-snooping on strangers at restaurants. But then I got tired of the cheap voyeurism and attempts to live vicariously through utterly boring people. I told myself: “You know what? Most people don’t even get psychometry. Why not use the gift? Why not be a superhero after all?”\n\nI went back to lifting and started running. I read biographies of the greats. Body and mind were harnessed for my true purpose.\n\nBut then I started to doubt myself. What if everyone was right? What if I got killed? Was I completely crazy?\n\nThere were a hundred voices who would have talked me out of it. I needed to find the one who would talk me into it.\n\nRead this and more of Torrent's adventures for free at\nhttps://heroicadventurefiction.com/tough-gig/\n\nText by Michael A. DiBaggio; Art by Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio",
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"content": "This comic sums up so many of my days.<br /><br />By RB Tower of <a href=\"https://zvcomics.com/\" target=\"_blank\">https://zvcomics.com/</a>",
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"content": "This comic sums up so many of my days.\n\nBy RB Tower of https://zvcomics.com/",
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"content": "<a href=\"https://zvcomics.com/hour-power\" target=\"_blank\">https://zvcomics.com/hour-power</a><br /><br />This is not my comic, but it sure is an awesome one. <br /><br />A buddy did a one-hour page of a comic quite a few days. It's a crazy story of hostile aliens and self-centered 20-somethings, with the bizarre flair that only RB Tower can provide.<br /><br />It displays well on the phone. On Desktop, you have to right click and 'Open in New Tab' to see the pages full-size.",
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"content": "https://zvcomics.com/hour-power\n\nThis is not my comic, but it sure is an awesome one. \n\nA buddy did a one-hour page of a comic quite a few days. It's a crazy story of hostile aliens and self-centered 20-somethings, with the bizarre flair that only RB Tower can provide.\n\nIt displays well on the phone. On Desktop, you have to right click and 'Open in New Tab' to see the pages full-size.",
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"content": "From author Brian Niemeier on the Doctor Suess debacle, and good advice to authors:<br /><br />...the outfit which owns the rights to Dr. Seuss' catalog made the decision to stop publishing the six forbidden books last year. They specifically waited until the beloved author's birthday to announce his books' banning.<br /><br />You have heard it said, \"Don't give money to people who hate you.\" An important addendum is don't leave your life's work in the hands of people who hate you.<br /><br />This advice is especially important for writers. Authors are already notorious for having high time preference. Few spare a thought for what will become of their work after they shuffle off this mortal coil. Let Dr. Seuss' fate serve as a warning. Make sure you've got a will, and look into setting up a trust to handle your IPs postmortem. You want your kids to reap the benefits of your legacy, not some faceless megacorp.<br /><br />That brings us to the second unexamined angle of the Seuss censorship story. The outfit that controls Seuss' books is being called a foundation, the implication being that they're some kind of charity. In reality, they're owned by Simon & Schuster-Penguin-Random House.<br /><br />Full article:<br /><a href=\"https://www.brianniemeier.com/2021/03/no-seuss-for-you.html\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.brianniemeier.com/2021/03/no-seuss-for-you.html</a>",
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"published": "2021-03-03T22:30:07+00:00",
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"content": "From author Brian Niemeier on the Doctor Suess debacle, and good advice to authors:\n\n...the outfit which owns the rights to Dr. Seuss' catalog made the decision to stop publishing the six forbidden books last year. They specifically waited until the beloved author's birthday to announce his books' banning.\n\nYou have heard it said, \"Don't give money to people who hate you.\" An important addendum is don't leave your life's work in the hands of people who hate you.\n\nThis advice is especially important for writers. Authors are already notorious for having high time preference. Few spare a thought for what will become of their work after they shuffle off this mortal coil. Let Dr. Seuss' fate serve as a warning. Make sure you've got a will, and look into setting up a trust to handle your IPs postmortem. You want your kids to reap the benefits of your legacy, not some faceless megacorp.\n\nThat brings us to the second unexamined angle of the Seuss censorship story. The outfit that controls Seuss' books is being called a foundation, the implication being that they're some kind of charity. In reality, they're owned by Simon & Schuster-Penguin-Random House.\n\nFull article:\nhttps://www.brianniemeier.com/2021/03/no-seuss-for-you.html",
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"content": "Theodor Seuss Geisel published his first children's book, \"And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street\" in 1937. It's been discontinued by its publisher, along with a couple other titles, including \"If I Ran the Zoo,\" published in 1950.<br /><br />He died all the way back in 1991, 30 years ago. He's not getting any money from his books, and he had no children. But the publisher that owns the rights is certainly making money.<br /><br />Too bad, I say, that copyright was extended and the public domain was locked down and kept from growing, or \"Mulberry Street\" would already be in the public domain for all to read, share, and print for free, and \"If I Ran the Zoo\" would be really, really close.<br /><br />But as it stands, Copyright will allow cancel culture to claim these books and take them out of circulation for decades. And you know they're not going to stop here. They'll find some reason to take away your Green Eggs and Ham and everything else that's not old enough to be free for all, but too old to be \"on the right side of history.\"<br /><br />All that said, this is why Mike and I release our stories in the Creative Commons.<br /><a href=\"https://www.ascensionepoch.com/about/\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.ascensionepoch.com/about/</a><br /><a href=\"https://heroicadventurefiction.com/\" target=\"_blank\">https://heroicadventurefiction.com/</a>",
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"published": "2021-03-02T19:23:28+00:00",
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"content": "Theodor Seuss Geisel published his first children's book, \"And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street\" in 1937. It's been discontinued by its publisher, along with a couple other titles, including \"If I Ran the Zoo,\" published in 1950.\n\nHe died all the way back in 1991, 30 years ago. He's not getting any money from his books, and he had no children. But the publisher that owns the rights is certainly making money.\n\nToo bad, I say, that copyright was extended and the public domain was locked down and kept from growing, or \"Mulberry Street\" would already be in the public domain for all to read, share, and print for free, and \"If I Ran the Zoo\" would be really, really close.\n\nBut as it stands, Copyright will allow cancel culture to claim these books and take them out of circulation for decades. And you know they're not going to stop here. They'll find some reason to take away your Green Eggs and Ham and everything else that's not old enough to be free for all, but too old to be \"on the right side of history.\"\n\nAll that said, this is why Mike and I release our stories in the Creative Commons.\nhttps://www.ascensionepoch.com/about/\nhttps://heroicadventurefiction.com/",
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"content": "Just finished this back cover piece for the indie comic Deus Vult.<br />Please check the book out and consider backing.<br /><a href=\"https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/deus-vult-a-crusader-fantasy-graphic-novel#/\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/deus-vult-a-crusader-fantasy-graphic-novel#/</a>",
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"published": "2021-03-01T22:09:08+00:00",
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"content": "Just finished this back cover piece for the indie comic Deus Vult.\nPlease check the book out and consider backing.\nhttps://www.indiegogo.com/projects/deus-vult-a-crusader-fantasy-graphic-novel#/",
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"content": "The Vapors' song \"Turning Japanese\" has a line \"Everyone who knows me like some Psyched Lone Ranger.\" I did not know what that line actually was until I was like 25. I always heard it as \"Cyclone Ranger,\" and I've loved that song since I was 10.<br /><br />After a decade and a half wondering what a Cyclone Ranger is, my husband and I actually created the character and put a story to it:<br /><a href=\"https://heroicadventurefiction.com/the-devil-to-pay/\" target=\"_blank\">https://heroicadventurefiction.com/the-devil-to-pay/</a>",
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"published": "2021-02-27T08:50:07+00:00",
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"content": "The Vapors' song \"Turning Japanese\" has a line \"Everyone who knows me like some Psyched Lone Ranger.\" I did not know what that line actually was until I was like 25. I always heard it as \"Cyclone Ranger,\" and I've loved that song since I was 10.\n\nAfter a decade and a half wondering what a Cyclone Ranger is, my husband and I actually created the character and put a story to it:\nhttps://heroicadventurefiction.com/the-devil-to-pay/",
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"content": "One of my favorite hobbies is redesigning public domain characters for use in our Ascension Epoch stories.<br /><br />I have an entire series of these, with my first entry being Dejah Thoris from the John Carter of Mars series.<br /><br />BitChute: <a href=\"https://www.bitchute.com/video/Cv0JwQNoliy6/\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.bitchute.com/video/Cv0JwQNoliy6/</a><br />YouTube: <a href=\"https://youtu.be/7XOsrm62bP8\" target=\"_blank\">https://youtu.be/7XOsrm62bP8</a>",
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"content": "One of my favorite hobbies is redesigning public domain characters for use in our Ascension Epoch stories.\n\nI have an entire series of these, with my first entry being Dejah Thoris from the John Carter of Mars series.\n\nBitChute: https://www.bitchute.com/video/Cv0JwQNoliy6/\nYouTube: https://youtu.be/7XOsrm62bP8",
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"content": "A renaissance man who predates the Renaissance, Matteo Mancini is a 900-year-old alchemist who discovered the secret to biological immortality. <br /><br />His exploits inspired Mary Shelley to write Frankenstein, which in turn inspired his heroic identity as the Promethean when he revealed himself to the world at large during the Martian invasion. Called \"The Dean of Superheroes\" and \"The Man Who Invented the Future,\" he leads the Challenger Foundation.<br /><br />Read a story featuring The Promethean right now at:<br /><a href=\"https://heroicadventurefiction.com/petrified-literally/\" target=\"_blank\">https://heroicadventurefiction.com/petrified-literally/</a><br /><br />Drawn with Micron pens by yours truly, Shell Presto DiBaggio. The Promethean was created by Michael A. DiBaggio and Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio",
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"published": "2021-02-24T19:09:07+00:00",
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"content": "A renaissance man who predates the Renaissance, Matteo Mancini is a 900-year-old alchemist who discovered the secret to biological immortality. \n\nHis exploits inspired Mary Shelley to write Frankenstein, which in turn inspired his heroic identity as the Promethean when he revealed himself to the world at large during the Martian invasion. Called \"The Dean of Superheroes\" and \"The Man Who Invented the Future,\" he leads the Challenger Foundation.\n\nRead a story featuring The Promethean right now at:\nhttps://heroicadventurefiction.com/petrified-literally/\n\nDrawn with Micron pens by yours truly, Shell Presto DiBaggio. The Promethean was created by Michael A. DiBaggio and Shell \"Presto\" DiBaggio",
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