syndicated daily


Hiddlesweek Day 4: Favourite Role

  • The new boss - Jaguar campaign

The Ladies’ Home Journal, May 1949

Wikipedia says that “Dennis the Menace is a daily syndicated newspaper comic strip originally created, written, and illustrated by Hank Ketcham. It debuted on March 12, 1951, in 16 newspapers and was originally distributed by Post-Hall Syndicate.” 

But this comic by Ketcham two years earlier sure looks like Dennis! 

This is your daily reminder that there are various kinds of leftists and various kinds of praxis; with the commonality of a desire to dismantle capitalism and oppressive social systems in mind, diversity within the camp should be celebrated and debated; propagate direct democracy and "the leveling spirit" that terrifies reactionaries; plant the seeds in the ways you can and watch as mighty oaks spring forth.

Solidarity, comrades.

The Golden Couple: I’m on board

I’ve slept. I’m sober. I’ve talked with @louiseblue1. I’m ready to go fandom. The rage is gone. The zen has dissipated. You guys ready for Logic Jen? Because she’s ready for you.

A lot of us are asking WHY the Arrow writers chose to go this route for Oliver and Felicity’s story. WHY are they willfully choosing for Oliver to lie when there are other options? It is illogical.

So, I took a step back. I let the emotion go. I downshifted into an old and familiar wheelhouse - business. That’s where I found the why to this storyline. That’s where the answer is.

When I don’t understand the story, when I don’t understand the choices the writers make, I quickly rely on my sales & marketing background. Sales & marketing are maths I always understand. Yes, television is about telling a story. Yes, television is about the examination of the human condition. We romanticize television because there’s romance in storytelling. THAT’S the art.

But there’s a pragmatic side to television and there’s just no way to ignore it. It is what it is. Television is a business. It exists not to tell a story, but to make money. That’s the number one priority. It’s an uglier side to the process so we don’t like to acknowledge it. Imagine, Business, Art and Story are at a high school dance. Mostly, Business just sits in the corner balancing spoons on its nose while Art takes a spin on the dance floor with Story, the newly crowned prom queen. But every so often, Story tosses Business a glance.

That’s what’s happening right now on Arrow. Story and Business are dancing. And there is an extremely good reason why. It ain’t pretty. It ain’t fancy. But it’s the nuts and bolts of Arrow.

Keep reading

Daily Phlint

Blood seeped between his fingers, fat red drops that ran over his knuckles and soaked into the cotton of his pants. He squeezed harder, trying to staunch the flow, dragging his all but useless leg as he searched for an open door, a loose grate, a window left ajar. But there was nothing but dirty brick and grey concrete blocks, soaked in the steady rain, buildings locked up tight.  Even the battered green dumpster was empty, turned over on its side, missing its black covers. 

He knew this day would come. No one operated on their own in the city, not for long. If H.Y.D.R.A didn’t drop you in the river, A.I.M. wiped you from every database, leaving you without a name or resource to turn to. Even the smaller consortiums – Sinister Syndicates, the Mauraders, the Brotherhood of Mutants – demanded payment and pure obedience to their commands. If you wanted to make their own choices, not kowtow to a leader with delusions of grandeur, well, you ended up here, in a dirty alleyway, running as your life’s blood drained away, every possibility closed to you. 

The least Clint could do was go out with a bang. Damned if he was going to kiss some jacked up thugs boots just because he refused to play ball with Victor Von Doom and his ilk. No, Clint made the decision when to pull the trigger – not that he hesitated to take the killing shot but because he was tired of being a pawn in other people’s wars. He’d die on his own terms, a bullet to the brain or heart, not fodder for some newbie’s torture practice. 

He heard the scuff of a shoe behind him, whirled in one last burst of energy, gun coming up, finger tightening. The H.Y.D.R.A. operative was prepared to retaliate, shoot first and ask questions later, but then a shot rang out and the woman stopped, eyes widening as a red hole appeared in her forehead. A cold gun barrel pressed against Clint’s neck, just at the top of his spine. 

“Mr. Barton. I think it’s time we had a chat, don’t you?” 

Stepping into the alleyway, the man walked forward, his perfectly tailored suit out of place in this part of town, the wink of diamond on his tie clasp just asking for trouble. Polished shoes without a scratch, black framed glasses magnifying blue eyes … only someone powerful and in the upper echelon of one of the syndicates could get away with such a display of wealth. 

“Sorry, I’ve got nothing to say,” Clint mumbled with only a hint of pain in his voice. “Just shoot me now and get it over with.” 

“Ah, I see the problem. You’re under the impression we want you dead.” He paused just in front of Clint, close enough for Clint to see the small sapphire in his left ear. “No, Clint … may I call you Clint?” 

“Why the hell not?” Clint felt a bubble of hysteria in his throat. Not kill him? Oh, God, this was worse than he imagined. “And you are …” 

“Coulson. Phil Coulson.” The tiniest hint of a smile curled up at the corner of his lips. “You can call me Coulson.”

S.H.I.E.L.D. Fuck Karma and Luck and Fortune or whatever fickle deity landed him in the path of the worst of the worst.  Everyone knew that name; Madame Hydra trembled at the thought of meeting Coulson in a dark alley, and here Clint was, bleeding out, staring into the eyes of a man who could kill him with a paper clip. And probably would, if he wanted to. 

Of course, nobody had ever told him that Coulson had eyes the color of a summer sky.

“Okay, Coulson. What experimental treatment to turn me into a super soldier in your army do you have up your sleeve?” Smartass to the end, that was Clint’s goal in life. 

“Clinton Francis Barton, AKA the Amazing Hawkeye, the man who never misses.” The Phil Coulson, the scariest man in the whole city, raised an eyebrow and surveyed Clint from the toes of his boots to the tip of his head. “I’m here to offer you a job.”