This Week's Pictorial Equation

Ugh.

I'm touring out to my psych's office this morning armed with a list of things I want to do this week and also this month. Also, with a bit of evidence of having started to try to do these things. I'm scared, because her knowing these things will place an expectation on me to actually do them (in my own mind) and therefore an expectation to do them well (also in my own mind).

I'm also petrified that I will be sent to hospital for psych treatment and not allowed out.

Irrational? Yes. Maybe.

Can I stop it? I'm trying, but my mind isn't backing down really easily.

Some days are really good.

Some days are shit.

Maybe I should enrol in a horticulture course. Perhaps learning how shit can work as a fertiliser will make this all a little easier!

For now, though. There's happiness in there. It might be tiny sometimes, but it's still worth finding and holding onto.

Quiz Time!

You Are an Espresso

At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energetic At your worst, you are: anxious and high strung You drink coffee when: anytime you're not sleeping Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Coffee Effiminate?

Taken from A Character of Coffee and Coffee-Houses published in 1661, ten years after the first coffee-house opened in England.

The other Sex hath just cause to curse the day, in
which it was brought into England, Had Women any
sense or spirit, they would remonstrate to his
Majestie, that Men in former times were more able,
then now, They had stronger Backs, and were more
Benevolent, so that Hercules in one night got fifty
Women with Child, and a Prince of Spain as forc’d to
make an Edict, that the Men should not repeat the act
of Coition above nine times a night, for before the
Edict, belike Men did exceed that proportion; That in
this Age, Men drink so many Spirits and Essences, so
much Strong-water, so many several sorts of Wine,
such abundance of Tobacco, and (now at last)
pernicious Coffee, that they are grown as impotent as
Age, as dry and as unfruitful, as they Deserts of
Africk. Having remonstrated this, they would (were
they wise) petition his Majesty to forbid Men the
drinking of effeminating Coffee, and to command
them instead thereof to drink delicious Chocolate.

Be more masculine. Drink chocolate.

Etymologically

In researching the origins of the word Cappuccino I came across this explanation:

Cappuccino means ‘little hood’ or ‘little monk’s cowl.’ Capucchio is ‘hood’ and –ino is a common Italian diminutive ending, hence ‘little hood.’ Capucchio is from Late Latin cappa ‘cap, cape, hooded cloak, small head gear,’ possibly shortened from the Late Latin noun capitulare ‘headdress,’ ultimately from Latin caput ‘head.’

Originally Cappuccino was the Italian term for a Capuchin friar. This Roman Catholic order of friars wore brown robes with pointed hoods. The full title of the order was Ordo Fratrum Minorum Capuccinorum, which translates to The Order of the Friars Minor of the Little Hoods. Their ideals emphasised poverty in order to appeal more to the people. This must have fallen by the wayside a little, because the order is still kicking today and they have their own website. They are apparently still the strictest of the orders, so who knows what the other orders go for in terms of the internet? Preaching via webcam? Podcasts?

The first cappuccino served had little peaks of foam that looked like the hoods of the Capuchin friars, and the colour of the coffee also reminded the Italians of the brown robes the friars wore. In other words, the popular cup was named by visual analogy. Likewise goes for the Capuchin monkey.

"This borrowing of a formal ecclesiastical term to name something secular and lowly is part of the broad, quite healthy, anticlerical, usually anti-Catholic humour that is widespread in Italy. Hundreds of words and phrases mock the omnipresent Roman Catholicism of Italy."

There is a feminine Italian word cappuccina ‘Capuchin nun.’ But on the Roman street it almost always means a salad of mixed herbs and is a not-too-sly reference to the supposed texture of a nun's unsullied pubic hair.

So really, every time you have a Cappuccino, you're participating in taking the piss out of the Catholics. Brilliant!

The commandments in relation to coffee

...and there began the working week. And she decreed to those followers who rise early for the great olfactory gift the coffee bean hath giveth:

Thou shalt not covet tea, the lesser
Thou shalt have a preferred vessel for the partaking of the elixir, and mourn such a vessel in it's absence
Thou shalt abhor styrofoam
Thou shalt not speak before partaking of the first cup of the elixir
Thou shalt not use the hand that holdeth the vessel of elixir for any menial task, lest the elixir be spilled upon carpet
Thou shalt not waste
Thou shalt not order decaf
Thou shalt not douse fellow workmates with the contents of an entire cup
Thou shalt not taint thy own elixir with foul and evil soy
Thou shalt depend upon this life-giving substance daily

Here endeth the lesson, she decreed.

Regarding bad coffee:

Waitress: "Looks like rain."
Patron: "Tastes like it too. Bring me some tea."

Hung Over

There's nothing quite like sharing a hangover with somebody. It suddenly makes it far more okay to feel like shit if somebody else is feeling the same way. You identify with each other on a completely different level. A level where you share the overwhelming relief of cold water, the lack of motivation to accomplish anything, and the need for a really good hamburger.

Scraping the Barrel

I was wandering around the city yesterday and happened across one of the local art galleries. It's been bothering me ever since, and obviously enough to write about.

The gallery is a University student gallery. From that typically I would expect a less focused, more emotionally driven set of works, probably more focused on the dark aspects of life. There could be anything from installations featuring broken mirrors and fake blood to grotesque attempts at sculpture depicting the many deaths of the human heart. Cynical? Hell yes.

It was pretty disappointing. I found the space itself far more interesting than the contents. A converted carpark area inside a building! I could have so much fun with sound installations. The exhibits themselves lacked continuity and thought. They were lacking in even emotional depth.

But there was one that really got into my head. A series of photographs taken at night. The intent was "alternate light". Great idea. Piss-poor execution. There were about thirty photographs, half a dozen of them unmounted and tacked to the wall and the rest mounted. The unmounted were marked for sale at $15 each, and mounted for $70. The shots were shithouse! Seriously, if I took anything like that on my camera, I would delete it in disgust. There were no focal points, no interest in the composition. It was as if the photographer walked outside, pointed the lens somewhere in the direction of a lightsource, clicked once and printed the result. There was no thought in the process, and therefore no evocation of thought afterward. Okay, it did evoke a thought.

Does this person seriously believe they are an artist?

I believe myself to be an amateur. Maybe I need to stop learning and go back to Uni. Forget everything I've learned about using my eyes and brain. Then I'll get some gallery space.

Wonders of Technology

Technology amazes me constantly.

For example:

I am currently connected to the internet, on a laptop with no cables attached to it. No biggie, that sort of thing has been around for quite a while. Sure. But how cool is it that you can blog while you're taking a shit?!!

From frustration

Looking at the clock and it's 2:33am. I've tried twice to get to sleep and all I've had is muscle spasms, twisting and turning, a fearful compulsive let-this-go-and-I'll-die grip on my teddy bear, a persistent headache and a mother-fucking TRUCKLOAD of frustration. This has been going on for weeks, but is persistently getting worse.

To put it mildly I'm not enjoying life at the moment. It's not just the sleeping - I think that's more a side effect than a symptom anyway. So during my flipping, turning, headache soaked, bear hugging night I have decided to seek the little things that I enjoy and give them more importance in my thoughts. In fact, to blog about them. In doing that I hope to remind myself that it's not all crap out there. Just some bits are.

Today a train driver made me smile. I had swung out around a fence in order to get down onto the tracks and checkout something I'd seen down there. I'd checked it out and was back on the wrong side of the fence when the tracks started emanating their mechanical whistling, warning that something was travelling along them, and close. Beauty! I stopped thinking about getting back on the right side of the fence and moved closer to the edge where I could see in between each carriage and almost reach out and touch if I wanted to. Twenty-eight years old, happily watching an approaching train and with absolutely no regard for the fines you can get for being outside the fences. What did the driver do? He grinned right back, leaned out the window and waved at me. Sometimes humanity finds a way to make you grin right on back.

I had a sweet potato scallop from the local fish and chip shop, too. I have discovered that not only are they best deep fried goodness EVER invented, but that they are enhanced even more by adding freshly squeezed lemon. Mix that with the chicken salt already on it and some kind of taste explosion reaction occurs. It can only be good.

Not much else to report.

Maybe I can go to sleep now.

I hope.

Valentines Day was, for a while, a time where handwritten notes were passed were passed in secrecy between lovers. Then, in the tail end of the 1800s, some yank started mass producing cards. It's all been downhill since then.

There's the usual "Hallmark Holiday" crap and profiteering surrounding this day. Flowers, chocolates, cards, candle-lit dinners. Bullshit.

Really why do we say it's all bullshit though? The crap that comes with a Hallmark holiday lacks imagination. Is that the reason? The many that buy the mass-produced overpriced card and the box of heart shaped chocolates, are they ruining the idea of the day for the genuine? Is imagination, love and heartfelt sincerity that easily blown away by money?

Honestly, I would buy the earth for the girl I love if I could. Not ever with an intention of winning her over, never that. Possession is a horrible concept to me, and never should be exercised over anybody, in particular those you love. No, I would give the world to the girl I love simply because she means the world to me. How can that be printed on a card? I would never pay for somebody else's sentiment in order to assume it as my own.

So here's mine for the day. No card, no flowers, no chocolates. Just a hell of a lot of heart.

Babe, I love you right through to my fingertips.

The phone says it all.

I downloaded a game for my mobile phone. Some will snicker at this, but let me explain the reasoning:

I am often stuck for hours on end at work with nothing to do but sit and watch a hole as safety standby person. Nothing to read, nobody to speak to. I just have to sit and wait. I practise drumming, but can't maintain it for ten hours straight. I listen to music to keep awake. I make patterns in the dust around me. I clean the patterns away and make every surrounding surface spotless. Still bored. My phone is always there, so I thought I'd put something on it to keep myself stimulated.

The game I chose to download is a brain training game. It's supposed to stimulate certain areas of your brain as well as assess and rank your abilities. Cool.

So I tried the thing out this morning and failed abysmally at one of the exercises. It could be taken as a description of how well I'm doing in life at the moment...

"Oh dear... Your rank is Plankton."

Mailbox Monday

Bored, Broke

Over to the world in general:

When you're bored and broke, what do you do with your time?

Insight would be much appreciated.

I've been messing about in Flickr groups quite a lot recently. Through a local contacts group I've come across a few interesting people. There's also plenty of ones that I would never bother meeting, but that's the same in the wider world as well, I guess.

Anyway, one of the better local contacts invited me to join another group. It's sadly addictive - a group where a theme or technique is decided by anyone, and then three photos need to be submitted to match that theme. After that, the members vote on the submitted photos. To me it's a great way to review other works and learn more about what I like. Also I've submitted a few and been surprised by some of the results. You only need to get five votes to win a round, but that's five votes that I had no idea were out there for the things I see and take pictures of.

Most of the challenges are decided by the first person to post a photo in that round. Usually somebody pops up and chooses "sunset" or "rocks" or "rusty" and really doesn't put too much thought into setting a real challenge. Everybody has sunset photos. We all think they're brilliant. Probably most are pretty good, but come on. It's not difficult to get a good sunset shot. The sky is doing the work for you there. That said, though... I still love a good sunset and I'll shoot them as much as I can.

I jumped in first on one of the challenges in order to be the person who decides what it's going to be. Here was my challenge:

BONES



The moderators removed it, and changed the theme of the challenge.

Seriously.

What the fuck???

So it's not your happy clappy shot. So? It's a fucking skeleton. There's no maggots (though if there were some around I would have shot them, too). To me it's a visually interesting combination of hide, skull and grass. If you wanted to be completely trite about describing it you could say a celebration of the continual cycle of life in nature or something similarly profound.

Close-minded arseholes, I say.

At least I didn't post this one:



The whole thing amuses me more than pisses me off. But it gets me to thinking...

If we approach photography, as well as any other art form, as a means of historical documentation why the hell are we always obsessed with recording the happy bits? Do we seriously want a historical record that says everything was peachy for us? What the hell will the next generation learn from that?

I would much rather see photos of destruction and things that are not readily available to my eyes than pictures of your gappy-toothed grinning sprogs with ice-cream smeared on their faces. A picture of a screaming child is more emotive, and more informative about that child than a posed-up PixiFoto Santa session. Do your kids seriously spend all year grinning hopelessly? I fucking hope not. They'll end up more shallow than Paris Hilton.

When I introduce music composition to students the first thing I discuss with them is intent. If you want to write a piece that inspires your audience to visualise every nightmare they ever had, go for it. If that's your intent. If you want to write a piece that makes people get up and leave the performance in disgust, go ahead. If that's your intent. If you want to write a piece that makes your audience visualise skipping down streets lined with picket fences, bursting blooms of flowers and bright sun, go ahead and do just that. You're most likely to find though, that the pieces that have more depth of emotion have more impact.

So why expect any different in photography? Give me reality any day.

Bones and all.

Quote of the Day

via text message from KelSuperStarSinger:

How are things in the land of vic? You haven't blogged forever!
I miss your wit charm and crap.

Quote of the Day

"Be not estranged from your booty,
lest you need to shake it."

- Kaz Cooke, The Little Book of Crap

Bring It On

I love a good comments fight. I've never been truly harassed but honestly sometimes I'd welcome the opportunity to get in and get sharp with my words. Last year I had a person calling themselves "Devil's Advocate" who challenged me on a few things in my comments. Those were brilliant days. I was filled with fire, checking my email constantly, waiting for the next move in a war of words with an unknown enemy. It was an exciting dance of debate and sticking up for what I believe.



Recently I posted this photo in my Flickr photostream. One person commented, which is nice considering I don't often get many comments. Until you look at it. Here we are:

only a BONEHEAD would leave that old junk there .. please clean that up or tell somebody to recycle it .. in canada you get paid cash for bringing in scrap metal like that to the metal recycler

Oh yeah. Game on, buddy.

I checked this person's photostream just to see what they were interested in. It must be set to private, because access is denied. That just makes this person another "anonymous". Somebody who feels happy to leave comment on somebody else, but not expose anything of who they are.

Game on.

Because I left it there, you are implying that I am a bonehead.

It would be better that you know the situation before you attack somebody in the way that you have. True, the person who had the trouble with the tyre should have taken it with them, but you are saying also that a bushwalker who finds it should lug it all the way home with them.

Ask yourself where the line is between rubbish and relics. If you found a shack going to ruin out in the bush would you jump up and down about it being recyclable? Or would you view it as a relic? As a photographer, I would rather observe, take a picture and leave. That is my perogative.

I appreciate your care for the environment and think that it is admirable. Your decision to sling around names such as bonehead, in caps no less, is less than appreciated. Constructive criticism of my work is more than welcome. Names are not.

Vic

I'm somewhat disappointed with my reply. Hindsight says that it could have been far better constructed. I'm out of practice.

The funny thing is that apart from this one all you seem to get for comments is Beautiful shot. I'd much rather being called a bonehead. At least there's some thought behind it (misguided though it may be). Plus it means Word War. But what happened to constructive criticism? What about qualifying why you thought it was a beautiful shot?

Anyway. Somewhere out there is a person who called me BONEHEAD. Indeed, my brain is protected from harm by a skull made of bone, but that is beside the point. I hope and wish for this person to take up their sword and join the match.

Bring It On.

What Is It Called? Revisited

Just over a week ago I posted a challenge of sorts. Guess the name of the machine correctly, or make me laugh enough with your guess, and you can have a prize. As a recap of sorts, this is the bucket that it lifts and loads dirt into waiting dump trucks with.



There were a few answers. All are worthy of mention, so here goes...

Ms. Avarice thought it was a giant dump truck. This thing loads into the rear dump trucks, and is pretty stationary comparatively. A rear dumper will drive off with a load somewhere, back up and dump it off an edge before driving away for the next load. This machine is the step before that happens. Nice try, though.

Jude says It must be called "the big fuckin dipper" or maybe "the big fuckin bucket" or how about just "the big fucker". The dipper is the reference more for the bucket pictured above, and the two "sticks" that it operates upon. It is an immense machine for the type it is - I've been told it's the largest in the world that does what it does. There are, however, plenty bigger different machines out there.

missjoestar deserves a highly commended for calling it a digger. Some do, so you're right in a way. But digger refers to excavators, loaders and other similar machines, too.

Now onto the prize-winners.

The person(s) masquerading as alannah actually incorporates two winning answers from two people who've featured long term on this blog.

kelsuperstarsinger with Im the big fuck-off truck... Honey, you're miles off by calling it a truck but since you've given it it's own theme song and matching dance I can't resist. For you I'll bring a guitar along when we meet up for Ani Difranco and I'll play whatever you want me to.

Zac, better known to long-term readers here as IcePick answered the question with Zac's DICK. Impressive, honey. Still doesn't do anything for me except inspire a little jealousy, though. For your impressive... answer I will honour you with a prize of Jaegermeister and Red Bull, because obviously you need to keep your circulation rate pretty high.

And finally, the answer that had me laughing for days.

Dive says That's gotta be called Miffy.
Winner!
What do you want, Dive? Let me know.

As for what this thing is really called: It's an electric face shovel but most commonly referred to as just a shovel. Shovels work with a completely different action to excavators, and take a lot more in the bucket - meaning far less time to load a dump truck, but far more stresses on the machine. The one I posted pictures of, I've been told, is the largest electric face shovel in the world. The thing is about twenty years old and nearing the end of it's life. It's machine number at that particular mine is 331. No longer. Thanks to Dive, it will always be known to me as Miffy.

More evil than ever before

"The Gematriculator is a service that uses the infallible methods of Gematria developed by Mr. Ivan Panin to determine how good or evil a web site or a text passage is.

Basically, Gematria is searching for different patterns through the text, such as the amount of words beginning with a vowel. If the amount of these matches is divisible by a certain number, such as 7 (which is said to be God's number), there is an incontestable argument that the Spirit of God is ever present in the text. Another important aspect in gematria are the numerical values of letters: A=1, B=2 ... I=9, J=10, K=20 and so on. The Gematriculator uses Finnish alphabet, in which Y is a vowel.

Experts consider the mathematical patterns in the text of the Holy Bible as God's watermark of authenticity. Thus, the Gematriculator provides only results that are absolutely correct."

The results I got are based on the posts I've made this year. Last year's posts got me a rating of 33% evil, whereas the year before got me a 34% evil rating. My conclusion from that is that last year was pretty under the weather for me, and I've bounced back in more than fine form this year.

Smiles

Things that make me smile. Just a few among many:

1. Hugs
2. A mischievous look in the eyes
3. Fresh sheets
4. Fresh towels
5. Chicken
6. Playing music, listening to music. A good bass riff. A nice guitar tone. An interesting drum fill. The sound of a brass band. Playing guitar in the dark.

All of these things, and more.

Bass Porn

Who needs girls when you've got guitars and drums? says guitarist Dive from Small Glass Planet, after having a therapeutic jam session with drummer brother Full.

Well, guys. You do need girls.
A girl.
With a bass.




Now I haven't picked up my bass in a while. Not working with a band made it seem pretty pointless bringing the old beauty out. But oh how do I miss it! I only truly realised when I cranked it up, pumped out a few favourite riffs and started moving around the room like the old funky idiot I used to be.





Living in the vicinity of a brilliant photographer helps for getting some truly gorgeous shots of what it looks like when you thunk out an open E. Many thanks go to Kate for the use of the pictures she took today.



Meanwhile I was more occupied with grooving away, getting reacquainted with Big Daddy, my long lost ballsy friend who only really gets cranked up beyond a quarter when I have a gig. Shame.



No, I wasn't going to let it go to have a smoke. I can do two things at once, thankyou. Actually, I worked pretty hard on drinking beer and playing also while I was gigging pretty regularly.

Kate's suggestion was to send me over to Dive and Full via the post, in a cardboard box.



So what's the verdict, guys?
Would you adopt the female bass player if the mailman brought you one?

Dialectual Text Messaging/Quote of the Day

I have one friend who is absolutely brilliant at conveying their tone and manner of speaking in a text message. Their own personal dialect, presented almost phonetically in a text message.

Now normally I detest poorly spelt and punctuated text messages. But this person is brilliant. If you've ever read and respected Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting for the written imitation of the Scottish dialect of the characters, you might know what I mean. This message describes the way that this person speaks so much that you can hear it in your head as you read.

Here is a prime example:

U bitch and tell bill i said get fukd. I nearly believed u ay that was a good 1 u had me goin ay

Brilliant is all I can say.

Spider and the Spiderettes

There was a spider in my kitchen sink today. Now, I don't know what everyone else does in this situation, but what I do is approach the spider's inability to scale the sides of the stainless steel as a perfect opportunity to study the little beastie.

This one has a lumpy, ugly, hairy back. Why the hell do you have lumps? I say aloud to the hopelessly trapped arachnid. On that I leaned a little closer and squinted at it. The lumps all over my captive's back were not lumps at all. They were baby spiders. Spiderettes. Hitching a lift! Lazy little fuckers.

I reached toward the trapped traveller with the ride-scabbing spiderettes and immediately two or three bailed out. Ah-ha! They know when they've been busted skiving a free ride and they try to do a runner to get away from the hand of Vic.

The interesting thing is that the ones that bailed were easily able to scale the sides of the sink. If all of them left the shelter of the back of their host, and went out on their own they would find freedom is just at the top of the stainless steel. Yet these spiderettes insist on hanging on the idea of somebody else giving them a ride out of there, effectively weighing the ride down and with their laziness, destroying any chance of their own salvation.

There's so many parallels to human life that can be drawn from this.

Resolution

Last night I intended to see the New Year in alone, camping somewhere picturesque. The idea behind it was to set the tone for the year. That is: Fuck everyone. The focus is on me." That is:- what I want to do, what I want to see. Want to come along? You're welcome. Anybody can come along. If you don't want to? Fuck off. I don't care about your reasons because they're not mine to deal with.

Anyway, the bosses that be decided I should fulfill my obligation to be at work early on New Year's eve, and be back early on Friday also. A lovely picturesque camping trip with a deadline just isn't the same, so I stayed at home for the big night. Tired, but relaxed knowing that there was a day off to be had today.

I contemplated getting dressed up, walking down to the train station and kicking back to watch the fireworks in the city, but tiredness was a major factor. No way am I going to get there, not be able to deal with people because I'm tired and cranky and make it all the way back home again. It just wasn't a sensible option. I kicked back and raised a few vodkas to myself, and before I knew it the sleepiness had kicked in and it was only ten. I set the alarm on my phone for eleven thirty, lay my head on the lounge and "rested my eyes".

The alarm woke me up to hear the revelry of the street. I said a quiet Happy New Year to myself and had another doze on the lounge again.

Around six this morning I woke up feeling alive and empowered. Why? This is my year. Mine. I will see the things I want to see and wait for nobody. It feels as though there are waves of energy coursing from my fingertips. That I have the Midas touch. Will there be obstacles for me? Of course. But in the spirit of parkour the obstacle will become part of the landscape and could represent a launching point to a better line of movement.

Fuck everyone. This is my year.

Quote of the Day

We have a work ritual of sorts.

Every morning we get to the yard early, pack all the necessary crap (and more just in case) into the trucks, and then leave for our assigned mine sites for the day. They're all about an hour away on the same highway, but instead we leave about an hour and a half early.

Are we out to beat the traffic?
Hell no.

We're heading out for breakfast.

We all stop at the same pie shop, regardless of which pit we're heading to. This is the chance to be truly sociable. We've done the hard yards already in packing all the gear and now we can relax in getting there. Time to kick back, have a pie and a smoke and catch up with the other workers you haven't seen for a while.

This morning Tallboy sits silently, pie propped up prominently in his fingers, unbitten as yet, and regards his meal with almost a look of wonder. After a while he looked at us and said

"This...
is what made me go to bed last night.

I knew if I slept, this pie would come around quicker.
That it was only on the other end of a sleep."

And with that he bit into it.

Name the Big Machine...

I'm not going to tell you the name of this one. Drop a guess in the comments and you can have a prize if you're right. In fact, if your answer makes me laugh enough you can have a prize, too.



Doesn't look that big, does it?
Let's put some perspective into the picture.



That's me, down the bottom of it, standing next to the tracks.
The guy up the top is walking into the operator's cab, where all the driving gets done in air-conditioned comfort.

Here's a view from the balcony next to the cab. This shot was done on a different day, when the thing was being taken apart for major repairs. There were a whole series of planned blasts happening in the area at the time, hence the dust cloud to the left. More of that another day!



Here's another view from the fanhouse area at the back of the thing. It's a perfect place to take a break, go have smoke and watch the goings on.



Here's a view of the thing without the dipper handles and bucket attached, with some welding repair work about to be done by the guys in the basket.




And now we have RatBoy, kindly showing off the size the bucket. It takes two buckets from this particular machine to fully load a dump truck. That's more than two hundred tonnes of dirt in two digs. The thing drops the dirt into a waiting dump truck by releasing the door at the back of the bucket.





So. Any guesses as to what it might be called?

Advice?

In a search for reasons not to suicide I came across an article that stated it's number one reason as this:

1. There Is Substantial Evidence For the Existence of God
[...]
You therefore owe it to yourself to do everything you can to communicate with God.

And then I came across another gem, on a completely different page, spouting scientific reasoning for not committing the deed. My personal favourite:

3. Many, many creatures are depending on you
You are literally never alone. While there are roughly 6.7 billion people on Earth, you may not feel that many of them at all care very much about your existence. But within your colon alone are living at least 1012 billion organisms, or roughly a thousand times the number of people on the planet. Stop your metabolic processes, and you stop theirs.

Truly, truly helpful, peoples.
You owe it to God and the organisms in your colon to stay alive.
Brilliant.

Album Review: James Morisson's Songs For You, Truths For Me

James Morrison - Songs for You, Truths for Me
Lately I have been picking up anything I can and giving it a listen. This is an exercise to sharpen my ears, broaden my musical experience and hone my ability to communicate about what I hear. Not all the music I listen to I am going to enjoy or respect.

When I looked this guy up on Wikipedia, I got a few choices to pick from. Interestingly, James Morrison the trumpet player from Australia was labelled as musician whereas the James Morrison responsible for this album was labelled as singer. I love the implication there.

The overall impression is that this guy should give up and let somebody else do it. I actually heard him on the radio a few weeks ago, and not knowing who I was listening to I thought Holy Shit is Simply Red still kicking along?. James Morrison appears to be Simply Red attempting to be Joe Cocker at times. His vocal huskiness he attributes to a bout of whooping cough when he was a baby. It would have impressed me far more to conjure up a tale of drinking addiction recovery, or stick a cigar in the guy's teeth for every photo shoot to explain it. I can see this album appealing to the cliched mid-fourties housewife who needs something to listen to while doing their digital scrapbooking - escaping from the teenage nightmares they have spawned and wish to have no more responsibility for.

Tracks of note on this album:
Track 1 - The Only Night
Firstly, the piano is far too defined in the mix. We have Late Show sound from bar one. The track tries to smack you in the face with full on brass/rhythm entry first off and almost succeeds. Funnily the vocal ad-libbing reminds me of a cross between Hanson and Joss Stone.
The chorus here is a disappointment after a nice brassy prechorus section. It builds through the prechorus section then all drops out to what seems like a completely different style - very straight in the rhythm with heavy and predictable vocal harmony. A fitting opening track for the album, showing potential laced with cliche and ultimately disappointment.

Track 6 - Nothing Ever Hurt Like you
The accompaniment has the potential here to be a nice down and dirty groove in the style of The Letter and some of the Tom Jones covers. It builds nicely but then leads straight to disappointment with an immediate lowering of volume in the bass as soon as the vocals enter. What does that do? It makes it feel like the balls have dropped out of the track.
The chorus features more driving rhythm in the drums - snare hits on every beat pushing it along, a direct juxtaposition to the laid back feel of the verse. Vocally, there is some backup harmonising happening. It's at a tasteful level, but still the choice of harmony is not fitting to this style at all.
Overall this track would fantastic live, with pumping bass, a kick-arse session band... and with Joe Cocker performing it instead.

Track 9 - If You Don't Wanna Love Me
Vocally, this is a pretty solid track. The melody is still pretty damn predictable. It's the rest that is letting it down.
The track starts out as a duet between electric guitar vocals - the guitar with a slightly dirty tone, heavy on the mids. Oh, potential! But there's not much imagination in the accompaniment. It's more powerful in the first chorus than the verse to match the step-up in the vocals, however there could be a lot more use of space overall to highlight the occasional fill.
Second verse - drums enter after a brief and extremely pitiful taste of strings (a warning of things to come...). The drums seem to be mixed too clean - they stand out as seperate from the rest of the band enough to bring on the impression of being a midi track.
Then some truly trite and unimaginative string arrangement for the second chorus onwards and it's game over. Forever relegate this track to ballroom dance shows trying keep up with the times by playing the music of somebody who isn't dead yet.

Track 10 - Fix the World Up For You
Ahhh, MERIT!!! Everything seems to fit well in this track. The instruments are well mixed, the vocal harmonies suit the style of the song. There's some wavering in the brass entries during the introduction, however rather than showing up as unprofessional it gives a human quality to the performance.
It's a classic pop soul piece, and well done for what it is.

Track 12 - Love is Hard
This track is one that would be far better live and acoustic. It has fallen victim a little to the temptation of multilayering in the studio. Just because you can have a shitload of layers doesn't mean that you should. A friend once said to me that if you can play a song with just acoustic and vocals, and still have it hold it's own, then it is truly a good song. This track can quite easily do that.
It starts off with a simple high-pitched guitar accompaniment that allows James' rough vocal quality to shine through. He has room to let loose in the chorus a little without his vocals being muddied by anything else that is going on.
It's sad that this track is relegated to last position on the album. It's of quality that I would like to see more of from this singer. Acoustic and vocal is much more suited to this man than a bad arrangement with a few brass instruments thrown in.

File Songs For You, Truths For Me to the left of Michael Buble and Harry Connick Jnr, and to the right of your Michael Bolton and Simply Red. Play when your mother comes to visit, and accompany with a mug of budget-label tea with too much milk in order to match the lack of complexity and predictability of this album.

Stolen Inspiration

They're out there, at the counter of every bookstore. Little cluster infestations of fake books. Tiny wannabe books. The inevitable impulse-buy oh-that's-so-cute mini book that defies the system of organisation of any bookshelf known to man.

You know the ones. In fact, you probably got one this christmas because that is when the infestation is most likely to spread into plague proportions. There's a few out there that toe the line of acceptability. They still don't pass as books, but they have some pearlers in them none the less.

Reasons to Smoke was instantly accepted into my life and my bookshelf when I opened it up to a page that contained two words. When used singularly these words are representative of grand holidays, however when paired together in this order they represent an object of hilarity and ridicule. Two words. "Paris Hilton". Yes, definately a reason to smoke.

In reaching for my copy of Fast Track To Failure this morning I was assaulted by another little gem of mini book proliferation. Fast Track... lives in the inevitably disorganised section of self-help books and miscellaneous manuals. Nestling The Dictionary of Modern Thought right next to Anger-Free (a book that, by the way, shits me to tears) is one of those little things that happens via necessity of space, but plays to my wry little sense of humour anyway. Then the little mini-[fake]-book tends to get stuck on top of the rarely used inhabitants of the self-help section, out of sight somewhere, waiting for the day that it can leap out, smack you on the head, and then be forgotten about for another year.

Today's assaultee was a long-tolerated pal. The Little Book of Crap. Sold with a disclaimer on the back - "it's about as useful as all those other tiny books - but it will make you LAUGH!" - the thing at least knows it's place. And so, dear citizens of blogville, this mini-[fake]-book is going to spend some time on my desk. There's nothing like stealing someone else's inspiration to blog with.

People are like sausages.
It's what's under the skin that's important.

So poke them with a fork periodically.

For future reference:

When attempting to photograph the slow mutilation of a butterfly caught in a spiderweb by the spider inhabiting said spiderweb, a few simple guidelines will avoid disaster, embarrassment, and realisations of grand dickheadedness.

Guideline #1 - If you are unsure of the make and model of the spider, and therefore it's capacity to be scary, it is best not to approach it while alone in a remote location.
... too late.

Guideline #2 - Thoroughly suss out all web attach points. These things are in essence a suspended snare. They have to be tied down somewhere, and severing one of the ties is likely to bring the whole intricately woven contraption (containing spider with possibly unidentified levels of scariness) into a state of being sprung and wrapped around the unwary photographer's entire body, with variable and unpredictable placement of the occupying spider.
... close. Accompany a brush with an attach point with a loud FUCK! Oh thank FUCK! Sneaky little FUCKER! and you have an accurate representation of events.

Guideline #3 - Use a long lens to get in close rather than put yourself in the firing line.
... too late.

Guideline #4 - Make sure it's not windy. Either this or bring some marvellously fat friend with you to conveniently provide a wind break. Otherwise, two disastrous things could occur... One, ninety percent of your shots could be a waving blur of unrecognisability. Or two, you could be in as close as you possibly can with your short lens and end up wearing half the intricately woven snare. In this case you will resort to dancing around in bodily jerks, slapping and grabbing at every available surface with your hands in an attempt to remove the sticky web and the occupying spider (possessing unidentified levels of scariness) from any possible resting positions.

... too late.

Love is all I have

Merry Christmas to everybody.

Today several things of note happened to me.

I tried unsuccessfully to contact my mother who didn't answer the phone. This is unusual and somewhat hard to deal with considering the effort it took to bring myself to make the call.

After the once-a-year text message I found out that my mate Jesus is in town. How very appropriate for Christmas. He has a kick-arse voice maybe I will be able to work my way into the music industry here with somebody I can trust instead of the idiot types I got burned by at the start of the year.

A friend told me that she has been in hospital for two months because she is bipolar and stopped taking her medication. The woman I love and would do anything for flirts with this mental minefield daily and I am consequently scared to death about it, for her sake.

I realise with great clarity that I am shithouse at being a friend to those who are grieving. A mate's wife is in hospital dying and all I could say is Oh shit. Hell. My heart goes out to you. Vic, you idiot. That kind of talk doesn't equate to being there for your friends. It shows them that you have absolutely no idea what to do to help.

I have so much love to give that some days I think my heart is going to burst out of my chest and explode like fireworks - but the fuse is a dud and nobody appreciates a dud firework. All that magic is just locked inside and lacking the fuse, the eloquence, the spark that sets it on fire and lets it out free to explode and be there for the world to enjoy.

All I can say is Merry Christmas. Hope you have a good day.

And I love you.

Disaster

Its coming round again
The slowly creeping hand
Of time and its command
Soon enough it comes
And settles in its place
Its shadow in my face
Puts pressure in my day

This life well its slipping right through my hands...

- These Days, Powderfinger

A woman at work decided to notice and announce gleefully in front of everyone that YOU HAVE GREY HAIRS!!!

Now what the fuck do I do? I'm happy aiming to look like a well-dressed teenage boy. That ideal is now well out the window.

Fuck it. I'm not going to grow old gracefully. I'm going to hate every fucking greyhaired minute of it. What really pisses me off is that inside I'm really disappointed that this has happened and there is nothing I can do about it.

I will never look for grey hairs on a person again, or tease them about it. This has been a disheartening cunt of a day.

Capping off yet another week

I've just been to the psych yet again. This has been a constant fight to "get back the old Vic" that I had. Actually, really, to build a new Vic that respects and retains elements of the old one... but is a hell of a lot stronger.

She wants to see what positive work I've been doing toward my goals. Fair enough, that's what I need to do and she has to follow up on it. But when it comes to music she doesn't see that the things I have been doing are absolute milestones for me with respect toward my attitude changes. To a non-musician it seems that getting back into music means that you should go out and gig next week. HORSESHIT. Maybe somebody who has no respect for skills and reputation would. Not me.

Why the hell am I posting album reviews here? Because I'm listening to anything I can get my hands onto. That doesn't impress a non-musician either. Yay, you listened to something. It doesn't seem impressive at all. But what she doesn't get, and that I have to fight to explain in a recognisable manner to her, is that when I listen to something I am critical about it. I don't kick back and let it flow. I analyse, I constantly try to find what could be improved or what the strong points of a piece are. This sort of exposure and analysis is so integral to moving forward as a musician, but so overlooked.

Am I playing, even at home? A little. My instrument doesn't scare the hell out of me any more. Yet, I pick it up and it's a fight to build up the old skills I had. They fall into disrepair so quickly once you stop playing. There is no way I can handle a regimented practise routine yet - the failures I would measure against myself in this would create more frustration than positivity. The fact that I play when I want to shows that I building back the skills without the pressure. Does anyone hear me playing? No. I live in a granny flat seperate to the lives of others and really who gives a toss whether or not I decided to have a bash at my own acoustic version of whatever I've been listening to?. Forward progress? For me. It means that I am inspired, thinking. The fact that I'm playing is building the old skills up without the pressure of practise. The fact that I'm not inflicting this on anybody else is circumstance mixed with respect. Nobody should have shitty playing inflicted upon them without their consent.

When am I going to gig again? Not tomorrow. When am I going to look for others to gig with? Also not tomorrow. There is nothing respectable about somebody who goes for an audition and says, Oh, I used to play but I haven't picked it up in a while. Fuck off, you are not a musician and you have no dedication. I will never turn up unprepared. It's unproffessional. It shows no respect for the other musicians. So the hard yards have to be done at home, alone.

I bought a drum kit today, which I know will be intrepeted by most as a departure from guitar toward another instrument. Again, it's a fight to explain what this truly does for me. Playing a variety of instruments builds your musical knowledge but still has the same core activities involved. It doesn't mean you are giving up one for another, it actually helps your playing across the board. Like hell a non-musician is going to understand that one.

Apart from the music, I've been working and sleeping. Sometimes I take photographs. Sometimes I go on the internet and read about whatever takes my fancy. At work I have been spending hours occupying my mind and hands with drumming patterns and thoughts on what I've been listening to.

Photography has been a way for me to look creatively at what is around me. Kat and I have been playing tag for the last couple of weeks on different themes, and it is my turn to pick one again. I haven't posted many from the last theme, but lets blame that on a time thing. Like the music, just because you don't see it, doesn't mean I haven't been doing it.

It's my turn to pick a new theme.



The new theme is trees.

Remember: Just like the tree falling in the woods with nobody around, if you don't see the it... Doesn't mean that I'm not doing it.

Album Review: Snow Patrol's A Hundred Million Suns

Snow Patrol don't seem to do space. Silence. It's always a wall of some sort of sound. Though I guess this structural complexity is their signature, sometimes your ears would be glad for a break, just some sort of break. It would be a far more effective method of creating contrast to introduce some gaps, some of moments of far less clutter.

In listening to their latest album A Hundred Million Suns, I have mixed feelings. Initially I diagnosed it a s same old, same old. There was nothing that stood out as immediately brilliant to me. But then, I think about my exposure to the last album, Eyes Open. There were only two songs on that one that stood out to me, however I ended up loving the entire thing through constantly exposing myself to it. The hook seems to be in the poetry of the lyrics more than the song construction. Once you're familiar with the words, the other nuances seem to come out, too.

Track 3 - Take Back the City
Ah, the single. The guitar introduction to this is quite nice and spacey, which I complained about a lack of overall. The vocals, especially within the verses, are less whiney than normal. This, I think, is because singer Gary Lightbody ventures into the lower range a little more often. This is something I would like to hear more often throughout. Swapping the registers also gives more contrast to the verse.
Both verses and chorus have a relentless quaver strumming in the guitar part, bordering upon the boring, but relieved extremely well by the use of a completely different rhythm for a prechorus. The prechorus is long enough to serve as a break from the relentless strumming -rive of the verse and chorus.

Track 5 - The Golden Floor
How blatantly annoying. This song starts off with a nice little fingerpicked chordal motif on an steel-string guitar. We hear it once, for four bars, before it is overlayed with a percussion motif that would be more appropriate to some pop trash that Shakira would pump out. It stays there, unchanged, throughout choruses and verses until the final eight bars of sound, where we are once again teased with the gorgeous guitar part that could have been.

Track 7 - Set Down Your Glass
A nice, slow, potentially beautiful song. This is where I am having difficulty with the constant background sound that this band insists on. I wonder does the keyboardist, Tom Simpson, feel he needs to justify his presence within the band by providing some sort of humming wash in the background of absolutely everything? This gorgeous song would have been much better presented as purely vocals and steel-string guitar.
I think this is something that bands have to learn from orchestral composers - especially this run of emo/indie bands that proliferate at the moment. Just because you have a wide breadth of musical sounds and effects at your fingertips it does not mean you have to use them all at once. A sensitivity and interplay between instruments - a conversation/contrast approach - is far more effective that having all voices speak over each other at once.

Track 11 - The Lightning Strike: (i)What If This Storm Ends? / (ii) The Sunlight Through The Flags / (iii) Daybreak
What an epic! I love the emphasis on the piano within this piece as a whole.
In the first section (i) What If This Storm Ends, the building of rhythms over the initial piano part is brilliant. Vocally, the same melodic idea is used throughout to great effect. It's a captivating melodic motif, mesmerising just like the intent of the lyrics. There's some great lines here. In particular - Be the lightning in me/That strikes relentless
On to the next section: (ii) The Sunlight Through The Flags
The introduction to this reminds me of the piano pieces of composer John Adams, and also the compositions of Steve Reich. It's layered, cross-rhythmic, mesmerising stuff. More and more gets added to it , changing the rhythmic direction and emphasis. When it comes to the chorus, the introduction of a straight rhythm on distorted electric guitar is frankly disappointing. It detracts from the complexity of the rest of this section of the piece.
Finally, for the third section: (iii) Daylight
This a disappointing conclusion to an otherwise brilliant piece. The verses are boring slow and uninspired, but redemption comes from the chorus with a lot more movement and far less bleeding heart sappiness. Overall it's okay, but would be better as a standalone song rather than being bundled in with it's outstanding predecessors.

On the whole it's quite a complex album. There's some brilliant moments, offset with some downright emo whinginess. Best listened to on a cold cloudy day with at least two glasses of red wine in hand.

Project Texture: Catching up on the week that passed too quickly

Night shift, day shift. Combinations of both resulting in approximately ten hours sleep over four days. Despite being tired and having stuff all time for myself, I've had a brilliant week. Playing with water cannons... Spending nine and a half hours on overtime rate doing absolutely stuff all... Who can ask for more?

Actually I can. More blog time would be fantastic. More time for music would be mind-boggling.

In the mean time, I have a photographic challenge to catch up on. Here's some of my thoughts for Project Texture:









That will be all. I'm off to have a life for a day.

Project Texture

Kat has come up with the challenge this time - to photograph texture. It seems like such a broad context, but to take it out of the realm of the obvious is proving quite a challenge to think about.

My starting point is at the local wetland centre - just around the corner from home. Bush, and plenty of interest in it. I've always liked the texture of barks from different trees. At the moment the scarring within the bark textures is captivating. Little bits of scars from the story of the life of that particular tree. A history in a sense. A little inner glimpse.

I guess this one could be like one of those psychologist dot pictures...



See in it what you will!

Now Playing:

I've finally got the shits with mainstream radio. It serves it's function at work - something that most people will put up with listening to, and a bonding factor because eventually all the people will know all the songs and sing along.

But why we know all the songs to sing along to them is the problem. We hear the same four new songs all day interspersed with pub rock classics. Even after a day of listening to this you've got a fair chance of knowing the choruses to anything they play.

I've swapped back to my old favourite station, where they play non-mainstream pieces and with a heavy emphasis on the Australian local content. The announcers tend to get into the backgrounds of the songs and bands, so there's more talk but it's informative rather than advertising bullshit.

So why am I talking about this? Swapping stations has brought me back into the mood for appreciation of new music. I've got hold of a bunch of albums that are out now and I've been systematically listening to them. What a breath of fresh air! It doesn't matter if I don't like them or not - doesn't matter much at all really. The fact that I am listening critically to what is going on in them has given my ears and my brain a new lease on life.

Now playing on the familiarisation list:

Sara Barielles - Little Voice
To me this is pop-oriented jazz. Joss Stone without so much in the ballsy voice department. However I love it. There's a big emphasis on piano in most of the songs, mainly as chordal rhythmic accompaniment. I like this style of piano accompaniment - punchy, heavy in the bass. I'm not much of a fan of flowing, arpeggiated piano accompaniments - and anyway that would not be fitting for this style.

The hit list for me on this album:
Track 1. Vegas
Despite there being too much emphasis on the single chord hits on the piano within the first verse (this could have been mixed with more importance given to the vocal lines) this song is a winner. The chorus and bridge more than make up for it. At times Sara Barielles lets loose, whereas for most of the songs on this album you can tell she's holding back, reigning it in. It's nice to hear the chains being let go on occasion.

Track 9. Many the Miles
Oh so soul. Vocal harmonies in the chorus, slow groove, a capella section. It's all there. In a way the song is commercial, but it's easy to identify with and I'm loving it. The last line should be an echo for my life at the moment:
There's too many things I haven't done yet/There's too may sunsets I haven't seen. This is the kind of song I would listen to twice in a row because it doesn't seem to last long enough for how much I like it.

Coming soon in the album review list:
Pink - Funhouse. - From first listening it will probably be a quite scathing review.
The Screaming Jets - Do Ya. - Classic Aussie rock returns. Similar enough to their old albums from way back when to still be The Screaming Jets, but different enough not to be accused of releasing the same old songs with different titles.
The Presets - Apocalypso. - I'm undecided on this ablum. Very mood-oriented, there's elements that impress... but are they aiming too low?
The Living End - White Noise. - The Aussie boys are back with a mixed-feelings album that has some absolutely brilliant moments.

All this keeps bringing to mind a line from a song by Aussie intelligent pisstake electronica group TISM (standing for This Is Serious Mum). The name of the song is Lose Your Delusion II. The song itself is taking a dig at switching away from the ideals of non-mainstream and returning to mainstream bum-fodder "like some inner technical hitch".

Don't change your life - Change your channel

So true, whichever way you go.

Whinge, Whine, Fricken Whinge.

It's a cloudy, windy day. Bugger.

This kind of day just seems to take the life out of me. I can't go to the beach, because it will be cold and the sand will be blowing around enough to remove a few layers from any exposed skin areas. Exfoliation, yes. Painful and annoying, more so. If I ditch the plans of spending the weekend exploring outdoors and instead attend to the indoor challenge of conquering Mount Washing, I will end up being bashed about the head by sheets and towels as I hang them on a wildly swing Hills Hoist clothesline. Since I have a tenuous relationship with the clothesline at the best of times, it's better to avoid that idea too.

It seems that sunshine and fresh air are a requirement for my happiness. I like my job because a large portion of it is outside work, and in a very changing environment. In my current state of mind [ie. muddled, medicated, working on getting better] I couldn't imagine being inside in a little box all day, the same little box all day, to earn a living. Honestly I would not cope.

I'll add to that - sunshine, fresh air, new experiences. I feel happy when my eyes are opened to new things. Often on days like this I will spend a fair amount of time on the internet. At the end of the day it might look like I've accomplished nothing, but I will have been on a linkfest that takes me through hundreds of different perspectives, reading about whatever may fleetingly take my interest. I will have given myself brain fodder at least.

Speaking of brain fodder I need a new challenge. Kat and I have kind of run out of steam on the stripes photography challenge, so I have thrown the ball to her for the next choice. Who knows what it will be!

Even the doga are going nuts in this weather. They're whinging, all of them. Joey the turdlet will not stop barking until he is let inside. The other two join in just because they hear him barking and whining, and they're probably sick of it too. I have no idea how to shut them up and it's frustrating to say the least. Thank god I don't have children - it would be worse.

Anyway, I'm off to find something somewhat positive to spend my day on.

This has been a public service does of whinge.
Tell me to shut up and get over it anytime.

The Stripe Project: Backlog

I went on a stripe-hunt the other day. My plan was to get a backlog of images that I could post one of per day when I got busy during the week. Well, that was one of the plans anyway.

The other plan was to get serious with my little Fuji camera and start shooting in RAW mode.

Brilliant. The files that come out of the thing are HUGE in comparison, take a hundred percent more time to download and presumably have a shitload more data trapped in them. That is, if I can open them.

The programs provided by Fuji with the camera are shithouse to say the least. They seem to be aimed at first-time users who just want to see the pretty things they snapped in a window only slightly larger than the LCD display, and then print them to palm off on to all their admiring friends. I installed them, I tried them, I deleted them.

Photoshop... My dear pirate copy of CS3 that runs in some european language other than my own wouldn't go near my raw images. The english version of Photoshop 7 wouldn't touch them either. I tried, just in case the europeans were fucking it up for me.

So... delete.

I'm now running GIMP. It's free. It seems to work. In fact it seems just like Photoshop without the price tag or piracy. Getting my raw images to open is still a bitchy little hassle, but eventually I'll get a workflow again.

So here's three shots I took the other day, that I've finally got through veiwing and editing.







Methinks I could avoid all the hassle by upgrading the camera rather than the software...

The Stripe Project: Day 5

No standing? I came to a full-on halt yesterday.

What do I do when I find out I've been shafted by somebody? Usually, I drink it all out and forget it in the aftermath of the hangover. The drinking lets it become not much of a problem. And the hangover... Well, let's see? ... That reminds me that health is far more important than getting annoyed at some idiot.

Oh, the joys of working with a hangover. Luckily, we had to get off the machine we were working for about an hour today, so that some other crew could work on it. Ideal time for a hung over sleep session. On the rocky, dusty ground I lay underneath the work truck, stretched out like a starfish, with a bag of rags under my head for a pillow. At the time not even a fluffy doona on a king size bed with a mountain of pillows could have matched the relief of the sleep I had today under that truck.

Hung over? Yes. It's not the drink that makes you get over something. It's the hangover that reminds you that life can be far better.

The Stripe Project: Day 4

The Stripe Project: Day 3

We live just around the corner from a Wetland Centre. I've been there a couple of times but have not actually paid the couple of dollars required to get through the turnstiles and into the main attraction. Instead I've spent time in the lobby area, looking at the displays and cruising the information pamphlets about the local naturist activities.

That's where I met this guy.
Let's call him Big Daddy, though for all I know currently, he could be female.



In the tank with [him] were two others, Medium Size and Little Dude. They were swimming around, active as all hell and very uncooperative. They resisted my attempts to lure them over to the other side of the tank into more favourable light. They would not show me their cool little stripey undersides for long enough to focus on them.

I will return for them later, on another lobby adventure.

So I concentrated on Big Daddy, who was content to be motionless and high and dry. [He] blinked once, but that was about the extent of it. An ideal subject. Stationery, and no complaints. Beautiful.

The Stripe Project: Day 2

Our driveway is a nightmare. It is lined either side by our house and the one next door in a hell-run that ends at a gate that is a prick to open. I'm not much of a fan of gates, anyway. Maybe this is because I do not have little kidlets to send out of the comfort of the vehicle to go open them for me. Maybe I have lived in the non-dog non-gated world for far too long. Anyhoo.

Guarding the very start of this gauntlet run is a mailbox on one side and some sort of pole on the other. They're both annoyingly close to the nightmare driveway, so some sort of hazard control measures had to be put into place.



Out comes the reflective tape.

So really, to get in and out of the driveway you're still running the gauntlet, but at least now you can see the enemy.

The Stripe Project: Day 1

I decided I needed a new challenge. The colour projects I did a while ago were great for opening my eyes to different perspectives. Thinking about that this morning, I've decided to challenge myself away from the idea of colour and into a favourite land for me: geometry. In particular within this category this time it is stripes.

I don't know if this one will last a week, ten days, or a fortnight. Who knows? So far, (on day one), it's been pretty exciting to see things in a new analytical light again. To tear things apart visually in search of a useable pattern. You'll see if I get bored because I'll go off and do some thing else.

I've managed to con my sister Kat into joining in. If anybody else is game for it, drop me a line in the comments.

Anyway, here goes.
The Stripe Project #1:



Let's be clear on the terminology here.
No, they are not sandals.
They are not to be referred to in their onomatopoeiac form as flip flops.
These beauties of Australian culture are known as THONGS.

A thong is not some flimsy piece of material you wedge into your arse and call underwear. That is a G-string. Consider that the epitome of the range of thongs is the highly regarded double plugger. The statement "I just bought another pair of double pluggers because my old ones gave up the ghost" becomes a little too suggestive when it's confused with flimsy material bits.

So get it right, yanks.

The thong is footwear, the double plugger is king, and the G-string goes up your arse.

Mailbox Monday

Bend over and take it

"You're on night shift."
Translation: drop your pants, you're about to get screwed.

"Change of plans - there's a breakdown at another site and you're running the crew."
Lube? What's lube? Nothing like a painful rough job is there?

"Come see us in the office when you get back."
This one's an interesting one - basically they want the story of how you got fucked. Not only that, though. This is the time of after-fuck tickling that has the potential to make you really exhausted because you only have three hours left to sleep.

Do I fight this? No. Like a good little worker whore I bend over and say bring it on.

Then you get feedback saying that in one night your crew got through the same amount of work it would have taken the opposition an entire week to complete. It's like being told you give good head. You might not like doing it that much but a compliment, knowing that at least you do a good job, makes you more likely to want to do it all over again.

Quote of the Day

Out on a mine site where everybody brings a cooler bag for lunch, Mister SexyAwesome pulls out a handful of candy canes instead.

I wasn't allowed to have them as a kid, he explains. 'Cause I used to suck them into a point and stab people with them.

Three apparent impossibilities in food production

1. Post-mix orange juice concentrate that does not produce a drink reminiscent of gastro medicine.

2. Appealing airline food.

3. Picture-board menus that actually represent the finished, oversauced sloppy mess that is served up as a burger, rather than the stylised neatly stacked fluffy-lettuced vision of the unattainable.