www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157622051635053/
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Late night with a 450D, a tripod and some weird metallic sounding stairs.
The first time I walked up my staircase I noticed, as I was yelling something to Bradley in the other room, that halfway up you are privy to a gateway into another realm. A universe where everything is made of metal and jelly beans are good for you. A place where geekiness is celebrated and Landcruisers driven by city folk are not. But alas, we are only given a glimpse into this magical world, a taste of the wonder that lies many light years beyond Pluto, the poor star that lost it's planetary status. All we get on that 7th stair is an opportunity to hear what we would sound like if our body's were made of titanium. Each shiny word slivering out and clanging against our ears in an alien fashion. At first my new glossy metallic voice freaked me out, but now, each time I hear those burnished syllables I smile and think of jelly beans.
www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157622051635053/
www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157622051635053/
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Dr Trapped in Plastic
As my birthday surprises continue, I found myself with a carton of Dr Pepper, my all time favourite soft drink, straining against it's plastic prison, just screaming to be released.
Alas, as they contain more caffeine than my dreadfully caffeine sensitive body can handle at night time, they shall have to wait patiently to fulfill their destiny until the sun rises again.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/3855183727/
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Today's 365
You know someone is rubbing off on you when you find yourself taking photos of yourself in various articles of their clothing.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Playing around with studio lights and geeky paraphernalia
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157622094556290/
365 over a possible 10 years
I started a self portrait project inspired by those I found on Flickr, where you take a photo of yourself every day for a year. Alas I have been going now for almost 2 years and still have only 161 photos. But I try.
Today's shot
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157601537478406/
Today's shot
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacy4/sets/72157601537478406/
What kind of issues can one have with bubblegum?
Is it the taste?
No I love the taste of Hubba Bubba, especially the sweet, sweet strawberry!
Is it the artificial flavours?
Nah, it's not like I eat truckloads and that it would make a difference my health!
So then is it the whole concept of chewing gum, like a cow chews it cud?
Nope, a bit of chewing never killed anyone (I didn't research that, so don't quote me on that) and plus it is supposed to be good for digestive health.
So what is it then, that prevents me from enjoying the odd Hubba Bubba experience?
When I eat Hubba Bubba, I do just that....I eat it, not chew it. Merely seconds after the initial chews, I swallow it. It's not a choice, it's a given. I have no control over my Hubba Bubba chewing. I think the longest I have ever lasted was 70 seconds, and that was only because I made a great effort. Usually it's only 20 seconds. As soon as that opening burst of flavour begins to dissipate, it's down the hatch for the pink piece of goo. And then I have to have another piece, which also has a life of 20 seconds, and so it continues for the remainder of the packet, consumed within minutes.
I know what you are thinking. "Bubble gum stays in your throat/stomach/any part of the digestive system for 7 years!" I also had heard this from many people in my life over the years. My Dad, my school friends, the butcher, and the lollipop man outside my school, just to mention a few. Worried by their revelations but unwilling to cease my relationship with bubble gum, I set off to do some research.
After many years, several thousand dollars and a trip to India to ride on an elephant I discovered this to be a myth. No matter how many packets of Hubba Bubba I ate, I would continue to digest as normal. I was relieved, happy to be able to resume my liaison with bubble gum.
But after the first packet, I began to think, “Well what’s the point? One minute of chewing for a burst of artificial flavour. Was it worth it? Were there far more satisfying flavours out there waiting for me to try? Was there any point in eating bubble gum when you didn’t actually ever get to the bubble blowing stage? Wouldn’t it be better to just eat strawberry flavoured lollies?”
And so it ended.
Hubba Bubba was put aside in favour of those pink fluffy cloud lollies……gosh how I love them.
No I love the taste of Hubba Bubba, especially the sweet, sweet strawberry!
Is it the artificial flavours?
Nah, it's not like I eat truckloads and that it would make a difference my health!
So then is it the whole concept of chewing gum, like a cow chews it cud?
Nope, a bit of chewing never killed anyone (I didn't research that, so don't quote me on that) and plus it is supposed to be good for digestive health.
So what is it then, that prevents me from enjoying the odd Hubba Bubba experience?
When I eat Hubba Bubba, I do just that....I eat it, not chew it. Merely seconds after the initial chews, I swallow it. It's not a choice, it's a given. I have no control over my Hubba Bubba chewing. I think the longest I have ever lasted was 70 seconds, and that was only because I made a great effort. Usually it's only 20 seconds. As soon as that opening burst of flavour begins to dissipate, it's down the hatch for the pink piece of goo. And then I have to have another piece, which also has a life of 20 seconds, and so it continues for the remainder of the packet, consumed within minutes.
I know what you are thinking. "Bubble gum stays in your throat/stomach/any part of the digestive system for 7 years!" I also had heard this from many people in my life over the years. My Dad, my school friends, the butcher, and the lollipop man outside my school, just to mention a few. Worried by their revelations but unwilling to cease my relationship with bubble gum, I set off to do some research.
After many years, several thousand dollars and a trip to India to ride on an elephant I discovered this to be a myth. No matter how many packets of Hubba Bubba I ate, I would continue to digest as normal. I was relieved, happy to be able to resume my liaison with bubble gum.
But after the first packet, I began to think, “Well what’s the point? One minute of chewing for a burst of artificial flavour. Was it worth it? Were there far more satisfying flavours out there waiting for me to try? Was there any point in eating bubble gum when you didn’t actually ever get to the bubble blowing stage? Wouldn’t it be better to just eat strawberry flavoured lollies?”
And so it ended.
Hubba Bubba was put aside in favour of those pink fluffy cloud lollies……gosh how I love them.
Celebrity Endorsements
I have begun to notice that everything I buy, whether it be clothes, toothpaste, a car or toilet paper has some celebrity’s tick of approval. Retired basketball stars advertise carpet. Britney promotes Pepsi and gets herself into legal celebrity strife when spotted drinking Coke. MacGyver extols the virtues of MasterCard, all which is based purely on monetary remuneration rather than on the actual merits of the product. Do I really believe that Jackie Chan drinks Mountain Dew or that Justin Timberlake eats and enjoys McDonalds?
Even fictional characters have gotten in on the act. The Simpson’s swear by CC Lemon – a Japanese soft drink. Bugs Bunny really digs Nike shoes and USA War Bonds. And Kermit the frog, since he has the need to drive places all the time, wouldn’t go anywhere if it wasn’t in a Ford or BMW. What makes advertising executives think that I would allow the opinion of a Muppet to influence my car buying decision?
Even if they did actually believe in their products and wished to share their wonderment and awe with the rest of humanity. Even if Big Kev really did rejoice whilst using Shower Power in his spa bath, what possesses us to believe the recommendation of random famous people? Do Britney and Kate Moss have such great track records that I would want to believe what they say?
Some prominent individuals in the circle of household names have serious drug problems, anger issues or are inflicted with an addiction to one thing or another. Some celebrities get married eight times in the space of 3 and a half days. That should tell me that they may not be the greatest judge of character. And if they aren’t any good at picking their future partner, what makes us think that they would be any better at choosing a car or a skin care product? When I choose my household cleaning chemical should I trust the guidance of someone who is familiar with chemicals of the pill popping kind? I don’t wish to disparage those people who have achieved stardom, but wish to stress to people the fact that surely there is someone better than Tara Reid to plug the newest Kenwood Chef Mixmaster.
So who should the advertising companies use instead of the rich and famous? People who know their onions, I think. Someone I can trust to really know what they are talking about. Someone that I would bump into down at my local Chinese restaurant. I’d like to see my Nan advertising pasta sauce. A greasy mullet-possessing mechanic advertising my car. Somebody my size advertising my clothes. My friends Bernie and Andy advertising the latest movie. A highly-strung teenager advertising caffeinated soft drinks. A geeky IT guy advertising my iPod docking station.
I want no more good looking, rich, famous or skinny people with fake teeth trying to sell me stuff. If you were on a billboard I would smile and probably purchase whatever it was you were peddling. That’s because you are like me. I can relate to you. You are just like my brother, my mother, my aunty or my best friend. You have probably never been married more than 3 times and have probably even used Shower Power or Easy Off Bam. Even if you were selling tuna, I, as a vegetarian, in all probability would still acquire my fair share of “Chicken of the Sea”…but if Jessica Simpson were the spokesperson, it would be a completely different story.
Even fictional characters have gotten in on the act. The Simpson’s swear by CC Lemon – a Japanese soft drink. Bugs Bunny really digs Nike shoes and USA War Bonds. And Kermit the frog, since he has the need to drive places all the time, wouldn’t go anywhere if it wasn’t in a Ford or BMW. What makes advertising executives think that I would allow the opinion of a Muppet to influence my car buying decision?
Even if they did actually believe in their products and wished to share their wonderment and awe with the rest of humanity. Even if Big Kev really did rejoice whilst using Shower Power in his spa bath, what possesses us to believe the recommendation of random famous people? Do Britney and Kate Moss have such great track records that I would want to believe what they say?
Some prominent individuals in the circle of household names have serious drug problems, anger issues or are inflicted with an addiction to one thing or another. Some celebrities get married eight times in the space of 3 and a half days. That should tell me that they may not be the greatest judge of character. And if they aren’t any good at picking their future partner, what makes us think that they would be any better at choosing a car or a skin care product? When I choose my household cleaning chemical should I trust the guidance of someone who is familiar with chemicals of the pill popping kind? I don’t wish to disparage those people who have achieved stardom, but wish to stress to people the fact that surely there is someone better than Tara Reid to plug the newest Kenwood Chef Mixmaster.
So who should the advertising companies use instead of the rich and famous? People who know their onions, I think. Someone I can trust to really know what they are talking about. Someone that I would bump into down at my local Chinese restaurant. I’d like to see my Nan advertising pasta sauce. A greasy mullet-possessing mechanic advertising my car. Somebody my size advertising my clothes. My friends Bernie and Andy advertising the latest movie. A highly-strung teenager advertising caffeinated soft drinks. A geeky IT guy advertising my iPod docking station.
I want no more good looking, rich, famous or skinny people with fake teeth trying to sell me stuff. If you were on a billboard I would smile and probably purchase whatever it was you were peddling. That’s because you are like me. I can relate to you. You are just like my brother, my mother, my aunty or my best friend. You have probably never been married more than 3 times and have probably even used Shower Power or Easy Off Bam. Even if you were selling tuna, I, as a vegetarian, in all probability would still acquire my fair share of “Chicken of the Sea”…but if Jessica Simpson were the spokesperson, it would be a completely different story.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I forgot my own mobile number today!
I have had my mobile phone number for the past 3478 days and about 3475 days ago I had my number memorised. So great is my freakingly good memory that even whilst drunk or recovering from the dramatic effects of a general anesthetic my mobile number slips off my tongue as if I had been born with it as an inbuilt piece of genetic information.
So to my great surprise and sickening shock, today whilst leaving a message on somebody's message bank, I had a mental blank and for the life of me could not remember this blasted number. I ended up leaving what I thought was my number all the while knowing in my heart of hearts that, that number was not mine.
To further disturb my otherwise cruisy day, involving not much more than sleep, food, Timezone and Ricky Gervais, I discovered that due to my decade of perfect remembrance of my number that I had no record anywhere of what my number actually is. It wasn't in my phone, it wasn't in my computer address book, it wasn't written on a tiny scrap of paper that was shoved at the back of a drawer along with my primary school graduation photo and half used tubes of hand cream. No, my trust in my memory to serve me to my death, was absolute and to write down my number anywhere was simply an insult to it.
I decided that my only option was to message a friend, admit to having a less than perfect memory and get my number off her. But before I did that I decided that I must record this monumental occasion on facebook. As I logged in and went to my profile, I was suddenly faced with my phone number. Plain as day it sat there on my profile and I realised that my sub conscious must have realised that somehow that I wasn't perfect and that there was a chance that one day I would forget my number. I guess my trust in my memory wasn't as absolute as I first suggested.
I took note of my number. I had given the wrong one to the person who I had called earlier. I am a failure.
So to my great surprise and sickening shock, today whilst leaving a message on somebody's message bank, I had a mental blank and for the life of me could not remember this blasted number. I ended up leaving what I thought was my number all the while knowing in my heart of hearts that, that number was not mine.
To further disturb my otherwise cruisy day, involving not much more than sleep, food, Timezone and Ricky Gervais, I discovered that due to my decade of perfect remembrance of my number that I had no record anywhere of what my number actually is. It wasn't in my phone, it wasn't in my computer address book, it wasn't written on a tiny scrap of paper that was shoved at the back of a drawer along with my primary school graduation photo and half used tubes of hand cream. No, my trust in my memory to serve me to my death, was absolute and to write down my number anywhere was simply an insult to it.
I decided that my only option was to message a friend, admit to having a less than perfect memory and get my number off her. But before I did that I decided that I must record this monumental occasion on facebook. As I logged in and went to my profile, I was suddenly faced with my phone number. Plain as day it sat there on my profile and I realised that my sub conscious must have realised that somehow that I wasn't perfect and that there was a chance that one day I would forget my number. I guess my trust in my memory wasn't as absolute as I first suggested.
I took note of my number. I had given the wrong one to the person who I had called earlier. I am a failure.
Monday, August 17, 2009
South Street Vet
I was driving along South Street yesterday, and whilst concentrating dilligently on the road ahead I saw a sign. Not the spiritual awakening kind of sign, but a billboard for South Street Vet. I don't know what caught my attention, maybe my subconscious was looking for things to include in my blog, or maybe I just wasn't concentrating as dillegently on the road as I first suggested.
The sign had the simple words 'South St Vet' on it. No surprises there considering it was the South St Vet. But now, what kind of picture would you expect to be on said sign? A dog, cat, rabbit, maybe even something as exotic as a ferret or guinea pig, some kind of animal that you would normally see frequenting the local vet.
But the South St Vet decided to use as their mascot and billboard hero, a dolphin! Yes, a dolphin! I didn't know that many people owned dolphins! Or that they even made cages big enough to secure the family 'mammal of the sea'. Even if I owned a dolphin and poor Flicka got sick, would I take him to the local vet clinic? Would South St Vet have the facilities to treat my poor ailing aquatic creature?? I just hope that one day someone doesn't take their dolphin to South St Vet, only to find out that they don't actually treat dolphins, or any other sea life for that matter, and find themselves swiftly running out of options.
"We used a dolphin on our sign because they are cute and his tail curled nicely around the lettering" I can hear the manager saying whilst little Timmy is heard crying in the background "Don't die Flicka, you complete me!"
It's a law suit and many broken kiddy hearts waiting to happen.
I think I might open my own vet, "Kacy's Kreatures" and on my sign will be beaver, as I have heard that beavers are increasing in population in Fremantle pet owning society. Or maybe a goat. I haven't decided.
The sign had the simple words 'South St Vet' on it. No surprises there considering it was the South St Vet. But now, what kind of picture would you expect to be on said sign? A dog, cat, rabbit, maybe even something as exotic as a ferret or guinea pig, some kind of animal that you would normally see frequenting the local vet.
But the South St Vet decided to use as their mascot and billboard hero, a dolphin! Yes, a dolphin! I didn't know that many people owned dolphins! Or that they even made cages big enough to secure the family 'mammal of the sea'. Even if I owned a dolphin and poor Flicka got sick, would I take him to the local vet clinic? Would South St Vet have the facilities to treat my poor ailing aquatic creature?? I just hope that one day someone doesn't take their dolphin to South St Vet, only to find out that they don't actually treat dolphins, or any other sea life for that matter, and find themselves swiftly running out of options.
"We used a dolphin on our sign because they are cute and his tail curled nicely around the lettering" I can hear the manager saying whilst little Timmy is heard crying in the background "Don't die Flicka, you complete me!"
It's a law suit and many broken kiddy hearts waiting to happen.
I think I might open my own vet, "Kacy's Kreatures" and on my sign will be beaver, as I have heard that beavers are increasing in population in Fremantle pet owning society. Or maybe a goat. I haven't decided.
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