Every Day For A Year #3

If you're asking the classic Gary Coleman question right now (I mean "What you talkin' about?", rather than "How did I die falling from this height?"), then catch up on the dealio here.

Yep, it's time to drop in on Frosty and his camera and see what they've been up to. We started having a conversation today about how, due to the greyer-than-usual weather and diffused light in Sydney of late, his photographs have taken on a European, Cartier Bresson-esque quality. But then we got distracted by a picture of the Starship Enterprise made entirely of meat, and that conversation was pretty much over.

So anyway, here's some architectural bits of Sydney, a couple of musicians, and some other extemporaneous miscellanea. And also some stuff. Enjoy.

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Six - Self-Censored Preview

Like a fat girl with a voucher for a free pair of Spanx, I'm bulging with excitement and anticipation for the new series of Australia's Next Top Model, which will be galloping onto my telly exactly a month from now.
My excitement was given an additional camel-toe this afternoon, when I attended, along with about nine thousand other people an eighth my age, a filming of one of the upcoming model challenges. A full report is below, however since I so thoroughly respect the confines of confidentiality associated with pre-filmed television, I've taken the liberty of censoring all the parts that might give the game away. I hope it's still as enjoyable and enlightening as I find you all. Especially you there, with the pert nostrils. Nice work.

The Thing At The Thing With All The Things.
On a bright, cool Winter's day, my fashionable and sophisticated friends and I queued up outside ____ on ____ Street, just around the corner from ____, where I once ____ed an effeminate yet unbelievably hirsute English gent until he ____ his ____. Twice.
Once we made our way past security, we were each handed a bottle of lightly carbonated ____, and found our places amongst the crowd. Shortly the entertainment started, mostly consisting of a performance by ____, who used to be sort of okay until they got ____ and sort of ____ up their own ____.
I surveyed the VIP area, where we weren't, and saw ____, ____, and most surprisingly ____, who looks to be much happier now that the ____ seems to have cleared up.
Eventually the modules appeared, resplendent in ____ with accessories that mostly looked like they'd been ____ from ____ and then dipped in the ___, which despite some unkind and badly-researched reminiscences was a really good decade.
The scrags ____ed and ___ed wildly, although one of them seemed to have misread the brief and was instead ____ing like her life depended on it. The afternoon really took shape when my friend Yassy pointed out that one girl's ____ seemed to be clearly visible, until she noticed and tucked it briskly back into her ____ as if nothing had happened.
We came away from the ____ with a couple of choice new nicknames for the modules, like ____y-Mc___-___ and ____-Hate-My-Life. There was definitely some excellent module potential there as well, though, particularly ____ and ____, the latter of whom was ____ing like her life depended on it.
All in all, it was a hugely enjoyable afternoon, even though the venue was hotter than a ___'s ____, with or without pubic hair.

For even more useful information, check out the promo on the official website, in which Saint Sarah Murdoch surrounds herself in crimson satin, Charlotte Dawson fans herself with a fat wad, Jez Smith doesn't show anywhere near as much of his chest as I'd like, and Shiny Alex Perry busts out his first "expensive". Oh, and the modules run through the mud, pull each others' hair and stack it face first, because this is the best show in the history of the Universe and I would like to kiss it right on the lips.

Stay tuned, as soon I'll be making snap judgements and grossly inaccurate predictions based purely on the girls' profile pictures and inane ramblings. Because I can. And also because I am a sad, bitter person with a distinct lack of hobbies and stupidly impressive buttocks.

Sigh.
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Every Day For A Year #2

Welcome to the second installment of my mate Frosty's take-a-photo-every-day-for-a-year project. Fanfare trumpet noise and stuff!

If you're anything like me, you'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll smile. You'll go "hey, that's a fountain!".

And you will probably have lied about the crying thing.

Enjoy, my lovelies.

Terror, With A Bit Of Screaming Mixed In.

I’m only truly afraid of two things in this world.

I use the term “afraid” not in the “would rather avoid” sense, but in the “run screaming with hands flapping and the distinct possibility of involuntary wee” sense. I don’t think anybody truly likes the two things I’m afraid of, but most people probably wouldn’t go to the same lengths I do to avoid them.

Now, there are rational fears and irrational fears.
Rational fears are usually aversions to things that can potentially and realistically harm you, like spiders, snakes, sharks, and other things starting with S. Steve Irwin, for example.

Irrational fears are things like… well, vomiting and grasshoppers.

Vomiting.

I haven’t thrown up since 1989.
I steadfastly and unreservedly refuse to. Even my twin sister went through two pregnancies without so much as a wet-burp, and my mother has only upchucked once in my entire life. The females in my family find the concept of reverse-digestion not only abhorrent, we avoid it at all costs.

I would rather feel sick for three days than throw up.

Even when I’ve eaten something dodgy, I can think my way out of a vom. It’s a simple case of mind over splatter.

If I see someone hoiking up a beige rainbow, I feel substantially traumatised, and will see an instant replay any time I close my eyes for the next three days.

Yes, I’ve had food poisoning. Yes, I’ve dabbled extensively and at times excessively in the alcoholic arts. I. Just. Don’t. Vomit.

Grashoppers.

I’d like to put this one down to the preponderance of grasshoppers around my childhood home, being as it was surrounded by leafy hidey-holes conducive to the development of six or more legs.
But if that were the case, then I’d also be terrified of Huntsman spiders, cockroaches and gangs of toddlers. And I’m not.
I think instead, I’ll have to peg this fear onto the Hills Hoist of JUMPING GREEN DEMONS OF SURPRISE CRUNCHY HORROR.
Did you know that grasshoppers like to hide in the fingers of washing-up gloves?

Or in the buttock-nook of jeans you’ve just taken off the line?

Or just outside your driver’s-side window, waiting for you to wind it down so they can JUMP ON YOUR FACE?! Okay, that happened to my sister, but the blood-curdling horror travels.

If there’s a grasshopper in my room, I sleep on the couch.

There was a grasshopper in the front hallway of my house for a week, so I came and went by the back door. My housemates had to collect my mail.

For as long as I can remember, grasshoppers have epitomised mortifying evil all the way from my brain, straight through my pancreas, directly to my bowel.

Until one of my Kiwi mates made me aware of the Weta.

The Weta is New Zealand’s answer to the grasshopper. Presumably the question was “Have you got anything straight from the armpit of hell available for nightmares and screaming?”.

Seriously. Check it out.

SWEET KILT-WEARING MINIONS OF SATAN, GET IT AWAY.

If that thing vomits, my life is over.

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Every Day For A Year.

My mate Frosty is two things: creative, and organised.



Well, he’s a lot of other things as well, but this is hardly the forum for discussing high-end pomades and toe-fungus, now, is it?


Recently Frosty decided to take a photo a day for a full year. A fairly short time after he decided that, I decided to jump on his bandwagon and display the resulting photographs on the ol’ blog. Every few weeks I’ll whack up an update so you can basically intrude on Frosty’s life and recognise him on the street. SWEET DEAL.


So here, in a massive and uncharacteristic display of handing-someone-else-the-reins, I’ll let Frosty introduce the project and show you the first batch of shots. I think that’s pretty big of me.



I thought I’d interview myself.

Frosty: What’s this project about?

Frosty: I’ve decided to take a photo a day for one year, starting 10th May 2010.


F: Why?
F: Because I dig photography, but always seemed to have an excuse not to get out there and take some pics. Usually it was that I was too busy with work, or playing music, or just too lazy to dust off the camera and get creative. I thought if I force myself to take some photos, I would get into a habit and the old “I’m too busy” excuse would become null and void.


F: Why start 10 May 2010?
F: Because that’s the day I thought of it.

F: Fair enough. So what are the rules?
F: Take one photo a day for the whole year. Black & White only. On a digital compact camera. No photoshop trickery, including cropping. 2592 x 1944 pixels. Landscape format. I must take the photo, but self timer is allowed.


F: So you can take only one photo a day?
F: No, I can take as many photos as I want, but have to choose one as the ‘best’ for the day.

F: But you said its ‘a photo a day for one year’.
F: Technically I did Smartarse, however that would kind of defeat the purpose of the project, i.e. to take more photos.


F: Well, maybe you should rethink that tag line. Just saying.
F: Well, this is my project. So I can basically say what I want.


F: Just trying to help. Let’s move on to another question, what does the subject matter have to be? Do you have to be in it?
F: That’s two questions Mr. Pedant. The subject matter can be anything at all, but as I said before there can be no photoshop action so it will basically be whatever I see on a day to day basis. And no, I don’t have to be in it.


F: To be honest, sounds pretty boring. Just taking photos of what you see every day.
F: Therein lies the challenge. Hopefully on a good day I will be able to shoot something interesting. And forcing myself to shoot when I’m not inspired, or when I’m tired, or when I can’t see something interesting around me will force me to get creative.


F: What happens if your pic of the day is out of focus, or over exposed or something?
F: So be it, the ‘best’ shot with all its flaws will have to be presented. Although I admire photographers who have the time to start perfect shots, I also like the feel of low-fi documentary style photography. It’s that philosophy that obviously fits in with no frills nature of this project. If one day is not great, hopefully the next will be better. I was originally thinking about Lomo photography. But with Lomo you can point and shoot and take an interesting photograph simply because of the warped focus and colours. Straight away its different to what we see every day, therefore you’re fooled into thinking it’s a great photograph. I’m trying to force myself to think about composition, shot angle, etc, and therefore will hopefully create something interesting. Maybe I’m looking at people like Terry Richardson whose trademark is portraiture with the use of harsh flash. Great photos which retain a very low-fi feel to them, and makes the average Joe think they can do the same. And let's face it, if its grainy or blurred or washed out, I can go back another time and do it properly with my way too expensive SLR.


F: Okaaaay, So who is the intended audience?
F: Me.


F: That’s it?
F: Have you listened at all to what I’ve been saying? It’s to spur myself on, if other people get something out of it, great!

F: Alrighty, well I look forward to seeing the results.
F: Thanks me too.

F: So what’s for dinner?
F: Well, it’s cold and rainy so I’m thinking something hearty, like Indian.


F: You always want Indian!
F: I do indeed.

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #11, or This Week's Pickup Line

Most of the time, my instincts are pretty good. I’m great at judging whether or not dairy products are still okay to consume, I can usually tell if I’ve got a visible panty line before I even turn around in front of the mirror, and I always kind of sensed that Britney Spears was a trashbag.



WOW, I suck at flirting, though. Well, I’m good at it up to a point, but then I take it to a place it shouldn’t go. I am the Hey Hey It’s Saturday of romance.

Last night, I went to watch some stand-up comedy at The Basement. It is important to note that beer and wine are served at The Basement. To me, mainly.

In between comedians, a trio of musicians played at the side of the stage. They sat on stage during all of the comedy acts, too, so they were basically plonked directly in front of me for about three hours. Which allowed me to single out the scruffy one and make sweet love to him with my eyes the whole time. My eyes are whores. Hooray for eye-whores.

One of my companions knew a couple of the comedians, so we hung around after the show, chatting and drinking, throwing our heads back with laughter the way people who are awesome do. Eventually I was introduced to the scruffy musician, and we settled into conversation. I assume I was being charming and flirtatious, because lord knows that’s what usually happens when I’m completely moose-arsed after eighteen thousand glasses of wine.

My other companion thought she’d nudge things along, so she came over to where we were chatting and said “Hey! You’re a musician, and Jo’s a musician! Aren’t you, Jo? Show him!”.





So I took my kazoo out of my handbag and played Smoke On The Water on it.






He didn’t technically sprint away, but it’s probably enough to say that kazoos are not his thing.


When I told my mate Lorin about it, she said she was surprised that he didn’t propose on the spot, and that clearly kazoo-playing “weeds out the keepers from the dregs”.


I'm pretty much spastically in love with the concept of Kazoo As Dude Sorter.

Will report back.

Sit On Myspace And Tell Me That You Love Me #4

(If you need some background to this, the love story of the ages, get it here. If you need anything else, I accept typed, double-spaced submissions or cheese)



After spending several months feeling unloved and abandoned by the questionably-literate digital masses, I’ve finally received another love note, from a wordy vixen named Elenna, via the wonder of electronic mail. The only drawback with electronic mail (apparently now known by kids as ‘e-mail’, though that’s unconfirmed) is that I don’t get to imagine what the letter-writer might have looked like slowly licking the envelope.


Anyway, it looks like Elenna wants to jump my bones (or possibly lick my envelope, but I’d really prefer to keep the euphemisms to a minimum). Elenna also seems to think I’m a man. Either way, I have a few comments about her email. I’ve inserted them below.


HA! Inserted.


Oh, right. Sorry.



Subject: i want to say u hi


Aloha, my dear friend!


Aloha?! If you’re in Hawaii, can you send me one of those coconut bras? I want to try one on and walk into walls.


I am a calm lady who is very friendly.


You’re opening with the calm thing? That makes you sound… not.


I can easily meet people and I really like to understand people.


Do you understand that people don’t say ‘I want to say u hi’?


I do my best to look good and to improve my appearance. I like to dance and to work out in the gym. I love to cook and to read.


Wow. You’re either really busy or you’re unemployed. Are you going to just hang out at home while I support us both? Because I’m really not sure you understand me at all.


I like classic literature and psychology. I am very conversational and I spend a lot of time talking to friends.


Yeah, on the psychology front, do these friends have names? Or even bodies? And are their bodies all in the same shallow grave? It’s always the calm ones.


My man must be strong and sure of himself.


I’m two out of three on that front. I’m sure that’s fine.


Should be hard working and driven to success but know when to leave the office and come home and relax.


So ‘make me some money and then come home and boink me’ is pretty much the lay of the land, right? I’m not judging, I’m just going for clarity here.


Should be financially stable with no drinking, smoking, or gambling problems.


I drink, I get drunk, I fall down. No problem. I don’t have a penis or dig chicks, though. Will that be a problem?


You need to know how to have some good old fun and be a good sport.


Old fun like shuffleboard? Old fun gathering around the wireless for some serialised whimsy? Old fun like rolling pensioners for their Kumfs?


Funny is a plus.


So is grammar and that.


You absolutely must be a romantic and not embarrassed to do something sweet and creative to show me how much you're feeling me.


I don’t embarrass easily, but this might be just the ticket. What, a graph?


I love someone who is not afraid to show affection in public but with good taste.


Boob-grope in Chanel. Gotcha.


Just know who you are, like who you are, and share that with me and we will have a wonderful time together sweetloveandhappiness.com/heartsinlove/

Elenna

 I haven’t clicked on Elenna’s link yet. I’m saving that for bathtime.
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