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A little over a year ago at the pub, my mate Frosty told me that he was going to take a photo every day for a year, to hone his mad rectangular picture-making skillz.
I asked him if I could post the photos in this neck of the woods, thinking it would be an interesting project to invite myself to be involved in.
WHAT.
IN THE NAME OF STINKY BLUE CHEESE.
WAS I THINKING.
I was thinking it would be awesome and, for me at least (because I love you all, but seriously, find your own fun), I was right.
Usually over the space of twelve months, you just learn a random melange of facts about your friends. For example, over the same period, I discovered that Frosty accrues massive dental bills, likes hats with knitted beards attached, looks decent in a suit, and can apparently fart up a festival tent like a champion.
Things I wasn’t expecting to learn about him though, but have done so through the regularly-deposited images in my inbox, are things like the fact that Frosty can make a busy city street seem suddenly quiet and gently autumnal. That he has a sensitivity for texture that most of us don’t. That he can twist your visual expectations in surprising ways just by tilting his camera a little to the left. And that he barely gives away a single emotion or secret in person, but can gush like a hormonal schoolgirl via shapes, angles and light.
I’ve also learned that if you compliment him too much, his ego expands faster than a Wettex in a swimming pool, so I should probably just shut up and get on with it.
Frosty, thanks for sending me all these pictures. They take forever to upload, you bastard. And worth every second.
In closing: That last one’s a pearler, my friend. Gluckwunsche!
(Dammit. I can never remember if you're more of a "what's the background story here" person or a "zombie garden gnome" person. If you're the former, check here. If you're the latter, check here. Frankly, I'm both. Then again, I'm awesome).
I'm particularly excited about this batch of photos from camera chameleon Frosty. You might think that's because there's a photo in there of our mutual mate Threadrock singing up his reproductive organs.
That is exciting, but no.
Then you might think (and you're really doing an unnecessary amount of thinking about this, by the way) that I'm excited because of that shot where you go "oh, look, it's a flame OH MY GOD THERE'S A FACE BEHIND IT AND IT CAN SEE DIRECTLY INTO MY SOUL".
Wrong again.
You might think I'm excited because I have an unnatural and very private shoelace fixation.
Nup.
I'm excited because one of these photographs is totally of my handbag.*
Enjoy. And yes, you can borrow it.
*
No, silly. Frosty isn't my handbag. He's more my bitch.
I've been crap, haven't I.
Inconsistent blog updates with eons between them. I know. I know.
And I'm sorry.
Well, as sorry as a self-indulgent brat with delusions of grandeur can be, anyway.
The kind of sorry that could kick your arse in a cage fight, if it could be bothered getting off the couch and into its cage fighting... what, leotard? I don't know. But anyway, my sorry would be wearing a cup. And a leotard. And hell, a glitter-wig, because my sorry RULES.
There's some good stuff coming, but. Rumour has it that Australia is apparently looking for its next top something something, so I figure I might take a mild, back-seated interest in that eventually.
In the meantime, feel free to join me listening to the sound of my own voice on Twitter and also see what Mrs Woog from Woogsworld and I look like when we're being Agnetha and Frida. We made it as authentic as possible. They have martinis in Sweden, right?
(This is that bit where I express shock that you don't know what's going on here, but offer a link for you to catch up. And this other sentence is the bit where I link to something fleetingly awesome on the internet. And then I say "you're welcome" or something, because I feel like I've done you a favour because I'm a bit up meself).
Now that that bit's over, I go on about how cool Frosty's photos are, especially that one with the wings in it (but if there was one with something else in it better than wings, I'd mention that one). I'd spend a short while announcing that the year is nearly done, that Frosty's nearly taken three hundred and sixty-five photographs, and we'd all have a think about time, and maybe visualise a clock face.
And then I'd stop talking about this blog post in the third person, because it's irritating.
And then I'd say "Enjoy!", because I'm nice.
So, so nice.
Everybody’s got a friend in a band.
When you have a friend who’s in a band, you’re pretty much obliged to go to their gigs.
When you go to their gigs, regardless of how awkward or clumsy they are, afterwards you generally need to tell them they were great. And then get drunk and talk wank until dawn. Pretty sure that’s standard. Pretty sure.
A few years ago, I met my mate Russ at work, and we became good friends. He told me he was in a band called Sierra Fin, and that they had a gig at the Annandale coming up, and that I should check them out. Here we go, I thought. Another friend gig, I thought. I’d better get my auto-impressed face on, I thought.
Jesus nappy-wearing Christ, I thought. These guys are goddamn fracking AMAZING.
Over the ensuing handful of years, I watched them grow (quite literally – they added a bass player) and write and play and develop and drink and eat and argue and perform and record and endanger their kidneys, and I can truly say now that I love this band.
Russ is the singing guy who does most of the writing. A hilarious bastard who happily laughs up his own pancreas, he likes it when it’s time for gin, and has about three favourite t-shirts that he rotates endlessly.
Frosty is the drumming guy who, as overheard by a punter one night, “hits the skins fuckin’ hard, ay”. Outlandishly good at drumming, he likes meat and photography very much and has excellent posture.
Joel is the keyboardy guitary guy. He can kick your arse in any general-knowledge-related realm, has fetching red swimwear, and is working on copyrighting his signature wiggle.
Oli is the bass guy, and sometimes gets thrown out of pubs for pretending he’s been shot. He’ll always, always surprise you, especially if you ask him about underpants.
And now, today, they’ve released their debut album, Cautionary Tale Of The Beautiful Blackout.
They recorded it in five days after an outrageous amount of preparation, planning and orchestration (seriously – there’s a twenty-six piece goddamn orchestra in there), and it’s beautiful.
It’s fucking beautiful.
I’m tearfully proud of them boys, and thrilled, honoured and delighted to have been hanging around while they got there.
Congratulations, me lovelies.
PS: You’d better buy the album, huh. It seems like the right thing to do.
