I’m sure I could do a little digging and find the last photo taken by my Canon PowerShot A550 (named Hilary Federwhore, because every camera should have a name to match the bitch’s personality), if I bothered to. I do know, without the search, that it was some time before February 1 of 2010, which was our release date from imprisonment in our one-room basement “loft” (with a sauna!).
I had surmised that she was killed on impact when Freak Cat swiped her out of The Evil Hypnotist’s hands and smashed her to the cold, hard ceramic floor (models can be so unpredictable), but it turns out she (Hilary, not the cat) was only rendered comatose.
In April, our Techiest of Tech Guys at work, known to us as Large Gentle Teddy Bear, pulled Hil’s guts out, in an attempt to resuscitate her. He found the problem, rectified it, and then discovered that putting her back together again can be rather Humpty-Dumpty-ish.
Apparently if the positive and negative wires (conveniently unmarked, of course) become detached (accidentally, of course) from the whose-a-whatsit, the reassembly becomes much like the defusing of a bomb – only backward: if he reconnects the wrong wire to the wrong terminal, Hilary might fry. I will know the outcome when Large Gentle Teddy Bear has done enough Googling to get up the nerve to flip a coin.
In the meantime, I had to post the following picture as well, which was taken with my Nokia N97 Smartphone. Pretty much the only feature of the N97 that I really like is the camera, which takes great shots, and HD video.
Incidentally, the N97 (whose name is “My Phone”, btw), took a swim in a bucket of mop water last week and I thought she was kakked, too. I was incommunicado until the following morning, when I grew a new respect for My Phone. She be hardy.
I don’t know what organ of Hilary this might be, but it’s a cool photo, anyhow.
I have this buddy who is an incredible cook and a hot-shit photographer. My kid is very partial to him, because he spoils her with pickles. She calls him “Muddy”, and I think he’s rather partial to her, as well, because whenever we walk into his restaurant, he has a bowlful of pickles up on the chute before we even get to the table.
As it happens, Muddy’s restaurant is one of Ruby’s favourites, and that’s where she took us out for dinner the other night (Ruby is very partial to my kid, too – I only got to tag along because I have the wheels).
Once we had our bellies crammed full of comfort food (and pickles), I noticed Muddy had snuck out the back, so I followed him out to smoke cigarettes and talk (Photo)shop…
He had just come back from a fishing trip, although he doesn’t fish. At all. Has no interest in fishing whatsoever. When his pals go off a-fishin’, Muddy tags along with his camera…
This particular trip, nobody was having any luck. The fish weren’t biting. At all. The Muddy-Buddies were disgusted. So much so, that they decided to all wander off on a hike, trusting Muddy to watch the gear. Muddy figured he could handle this, although he only knows the business end of a fishing rod because it’s generally the one pointing at the water.
Muddy wanted duck pictures, anyway, so he was happy to “watch” the gear…
The ducks weren’t cooperating any more than the fish that day. They kept swimming so that the fishing rods, propped up against the rocks on the shore, lines still in the water, were between themselves and Muddy’s camera.
Muddy was determined to get his shot, however, and he finally decided to get rid of the rods….
Of course, this was not a matter of just picking up a rod and moving it. No… Muddy had to figure out how to unlock the reel and wind the line in first – which he managed – he’s fairly bright. Easy-peasy.
What he didn’t expect, while reeling in the line, was to nearly have the rod yanked out of his hands. Yup. The non-fishing photographer/cook caught himself a fish. Illegally, too, considering he didn’t have a fishing license.
He got around that one, though, by throwing it back – after yelling at one of his buddies to come back and take a picture first. I’m not sure how he convinced the guy to take the shot and not just throw the camera in the water; he was that mad that Muddy had caught a fish by accident when the rest of them couldn’t pull it off for trying…
I was rather impressed, though, and talked him into letting me have the picture… and posting it… and telling the story. Thankfully, he agreed to it all, ‘cuz I was tapped, story-wise.
I might actually have to go back to writing my own, if this keeps up.
Now, don’t get all excited by the “Ta-DA”; I don’t have much in the way of “lawyer” news, yet. I have to admit, though, that I’m sick and tired of being pissed off, already.
And I feel guilty about dissing The Sire on my very public blog, even if he (sorta) does deserve it.
And he does deserve it. Sorta.
I wanted to not be pissed anymore, and now I’m not. I’m busy setting things straight, and that’s helped. It’s long past due.
I want to get back to my plans, and I can’t do that until this mess is fixed.
And, dammit, I want a new camera.
Don’t get me wrong – I still love Hilary Federwhore. She is the bomb. The Evil Hypnotist is a video-making addict, though, and I can never find Hilary when I really want/need her.
And if, by some miracle, I do find her, the batteries are generally dead. It’s time for Camera #2 (I’m going to leave the little HP I drowned with an extra large Tim’s® out of the count – it’s no doubt been recycled into… whatever drowned cameras get recycled into, by now), whatever its name will be .
Hil’s been good to me. That shot up at the top there is a good case in point. If you click it and then zoom the photo, the clarity is pretty damned good for what I paid for it. You can even see the aphids crawling on the fronds…
I don’t know anything about which camera has what features now that I don’t sell cameras anymore. Nor do I have time to stand in Louie’s store and play with them all.
But, guess what I found, Betches ‘n Shetbags?!
I found this place! I want you all to go and find your dream camera and report back to me. Go, go, go! Or, better yet, read the rest of the post, then go, and pick me up my fave. 😀
Okay, I’m kidding – but only a little…
I know what I want in a camera, as far as features go. And, much as I want to stay true to Canon, considering Hilary just won’t drown, no matter what I pour on her, or set her down in (even an extra large Tim’s®), scrolling and searching through the Canon website – the Canuckian version, anyway – is tedious and time-consuming.
And I don’t know if I want to starve trying to pay for an DSLR, or if I want to “settle” for another point-and-shoot, which I can at least afford, lawyer bills and all…
Best In Class (and yeah, it’s a free service) found MY new camera for me with a few clicks. And it is a Canon.
So, if my legal battle is won (errr… what I call “won” – ahem…*), I’m celebrating with a new camera. If I lose… well, I’m buying it anyway.
Right, so I worked a night shift today (or last night), and have not yet slept, although I’m working through the night again tomorrow (or today [or tonight]).
You’ll have to excuse me; my brains have had a stir. See above.
It’s a lonely vigil, the night shift. There’s nobody else to dance with, for one thing. Not that I mind dancing alone (and I do dance in the parking lot all by myself, through the long night. I do.), but there are fewer 5-minute conversations, because there are fewer people – which is why I’m alone to begin with; fewer people to deal with means no side-kick for Les to dance with – and those few people tend to be tired and grumpy. Especially when it rains.
Myself, I like the rain in the middle of the night. I don’t have to sweep the “dance floor” in the rain, although I kind of like that part of the job. It’s rhythmic and soothing, and sometimes I find cool things. Like money – in 5 cent, 10 cent, 2-bits, and sometimes (gasp!) even whole dollar increments.
And then there’s that thing at the top of the page, stuck up there before the words start. Yes, it does look like that, doesn’t it? Or what I’ve always imagined that that would look like, if ever I encountered it, and up until I came across that ziploc bag while sweeping prior to the rain in the middle of last night, I had never encountered it.
If that’s what it really is, anyway.
And you know I’m not going to tell you that, at least, until the end of the story, right?
I’m going to interrupt here, one day later, to add some audio. With thanks to Suzi and Dale, I’ve worked up the guts to record the remaining portion of this post, as practice for The Waitress AudioBook project – you know, test the equipment and software, find my public speaking voice again, blah, blah, blah.
I’m pleased to say, that I dropped back into it with very few mishaps, and no tears whatsoever. In fact, I actually enjoyed myself, which I wouldn’t have believed possible, previously. I may just do this again.
Click the link – have a listen – read along. Sorry about the lack of a bouncing ball to follow, but maybe I’ll work that in when I switch the blog over to flash, which should happen sometime next decade with the flash conversion success rate that I boast…
I stand there in the parking lot, broom in hand, staring down at this ziploc bag, and nudge it with the very manly steel-toed toe of my very manly steel-toed boot…. and I look around as nonchalantly as is possible when one comes across what might be seriously illegal ziploc baggie-filler in the middle of the night at one’s place of employment, with Han Solo’s voice running through my head: “I don’t know! Fly casual!” Or, in this case, sweep casual….
Eventually, I get up the guts to pick it up. It’s heavier than I would have imagined cocaine would be; packed into a hard little, perfect little, ultra-thin zippo-lighter-sized rectanglular-shaped brick.
A nasty thought strikes me: Is this some kind of test?!
Not a “set up from the Boss” kind of test… I’m thinking more along the lines of God, or the Universe, or Whomever/Whatever really runs things… a kind of like, “Here! Have some of this. Free, even!” kind of test. I mean, if I had found a baggie of pot in the parking lot in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t be blogging this.
And I’m pretty sure I’d be sound asleep right now, too… 😀
But it very obviously isn’t pot… and I’ve no idea if it’s what I think it might be, which is coke, and on top of that, no idea if, assuming I had the opportunity/nerve to open it up, I would be able to tell cocaine from anything else that might resemble cocaine.
All I really know, is that whatever it is or isn’t, it’s illegal, and I’d better “do the right thing”, or risk arrest, and the loss of my groovy-cool new J.O.B.
So, what’s the “right thing to do”?
Do I sneak off to the bathroom and unwrap the thing…? No. I’m not worried about temptation (although wouldn’t that be a bugger – to crawl out from under, find a job I like for a change, and then get hooked on coke in the employee bathroom the first time out because I found somebody’s lost stash and thought, “Ah, what the hell…?”), but opening it up wouldn’t exactly look good on me later, would it?
Do I take it in to the “inside” side of the parking lot, to Pretty Girl who’s working tonight and Show and Tell it to her? I decide against… Pretty Girl is nice (she dances when I tell her to), but I don’t really know her that well. What if she’s a coke-head? It could happen – maybe she dropped it.
I decide to go inside and call the Boss – yes, wake him up out of a sound sleep, and ask him what to do. That’s the ticket.
At which point, a 5-Minute Conversationalist rolls up to park, grumpy as all hell, and I stuff the baggie in my pocket and go conversate.
And then I forget all about it.
I KNOW!!! Can you imagine?!
But that’s what I do… until the sun rises, and I’m suddenly surrounded by 5-Minute Conversationalists and it isn’t until the Boss pulls up and parks that I remember it.
And then shift-change is upon us, and things go nuts, because we have to shut everything down for a whole minute-and-a-half and all the grumpy 5-Minute Conversationalists are freaking because they have to wait for their conversations, and by the time it calms down and I’m free to talk to the Boss about the baggie full of drugs I found in his parking lot, my Idiot Child (now don’t come down on me for renaming my formerly wonderful albeit sometimes stupid kid – she’s a full-blown teenager now, clinically insane and has recently earned the new name, believe me) comes flying into the fray to tell me she missed her bus, and can I please, please drive her all the way to the far edge of town to school?
To which I find myself driving in a downpour, with a minor child, and me with no purse (hence, no driver’s license), with my pockets stuffed full of cocaine.
I’m certain I’m going to be stopped for driving erratically. I am, in point of fact, driving very erratically, being in a panic about my pending arrest and all. The knowledge that I am about to become the much-honoured Family Cup Holder does not please me nearly as much as I’ve always believed it would.
I’m sure that, even if I don’t get stopped by the police, I’m certain to run a red light, plow through twenty-seven other vehicles, roll the Prissy-van, mow down a whole bloody mess of school-children, and eventually wake up from my coma in handcuffs because somebody is going to find cocaine in my pockets, dammit, and, somehow, I don’t think, “I found it in the parking lot,” is gonna fly… Nuh-uhhh.
I decide to drop my Idiot Child off at school, and then drive to the police station with my contraband and turn myself in. I’m pretty sure they’ll believe the parking lot story if I surrender the goods of my own volition, so I concentrate on not killing anyone, and driving safely, and I must be doing alright, because I turn into my driveway having had only two fists shaken in my direction, and three or four fingers, ummm, fingered at me.
Yes. I turn into my driveway… having driven by rote and gone home rather than the police station.
At this point, I decide, to hell with it all, I’m going to flush it and forget it. I get inside, lock the door, lock the bathroom door, you know, to be on the safe side, and unwrap the hard little, perfect little, ultra-thin zippo-lighter-sized rectanglular-shaped brick.
Which turns out to be a dead camera battery wrapped in a tissue and folded into a ziploc bag for recycling.
Lucky for me… because a few minutes later, I discover that my toilet won’t flush.
Some drug dealer I’d make. I’m disgusted with myself. I don’t deserve The Family Cup after all.
And Google is going to send me some wicked-weird visitors because of this post, I know it.
So, the Mini-Van Saga is finally over…. and it turned out to be a trilogy, at that. I was originally going to be leasing The Fly-Mobile, so-named because it was The Fly-Girl’s ride, and she wanted to get rid of it.
I liked that mini-van. Turns out, the Fly-Girl did, too, and decided to keep it after all, even though she had to pay a bzillion dollars to get it registered in the U.S. after she got married and jumped The Ditch (Traitor!).
I got over it, though, when Fluffy (so-named by Kyla, because he’s, well, fluffy – 🙂 ), the Fly-Girl’s partner-in-car-sharking, found me another mini-van just like the Fly-Mobile, except fully powered and, um… purple. Which prompted Ky to name it The Grape-Mobile. And that prompted me to like it. I like pretty much anything provided it has a cool, freaky, and/or plain ol’ weird moniker.
And then the Grape-Mobile kakked on the operating table during the certification. And I do mean kakked. It barfed out every kind of fluid running through its veins, through all orifices, including new and bewildering orifices that no vehicle should have. So Fluffy shot it. Ky was pissed.
But, Fluffy turns out to be a Genie of sorts, and magicked us up a pristine (albeit older) one-ownered as-yet-un-named mini-van of the Chevy Lumina APV variety, that positively beamed throughout its certification, and Ky loves him again. The two cases of soda, three bags of potato chips, and two large jars of pickles he soothed her with may have had a part in the forgiveness, mind you.
The Pristine Un-Named was delivered to me Friday evening, whereupon, I immediately drove it the three blocks to Ruby’s house to show off. And I drove it the six-ish blocks to the J.O.B. yesterday, and then had to return to the mall from half-way home, having forgot it in the parking lot when my shift was over. Having wheels will take some getting used to…
Anyway… it was decided last evening, now that we have transportation, that we should pick up Ky’s doggish-type companion from her father’s place and get us to a too-far-to-walk-a-dog hiking trail with the camera. I put on a pair of sneakers for the first time in what feels like forever, and off we went.
During said Walk-About, I took the above photo, and noticed when I uploaded it, that there seemed to be a face peering out at me. This face looks eerily like my daughter, until it’s zoomed-in on, whereupon it just turns creepy.
Methinks, Shrinky may have sent a faerie over from the UK. She’s always catching them with her camera. I hope she doesn’t do it again, though, because it gives me the heebie-jeebies.
This afternoon, we will be traveling to Teeny-Tiny Town to visit my Mom, and bring some flowers to the cemetery for my Dad. We will be listening closely for the sound of him rolling over in his grave at the thought of me owning a vehicle. His response to my news, months ago, that I was planning this lease was: “God help the trees on the side of the road.”
Portal2theUniverse (AKA “Gateway to the Multiverse”) called me a Prestidigitator a couple of weeks ago. At first I wondered if I should be offended, but his actual opinion of Where the Walls are Soft seems to be somewhat admiring, so I ended up feeling fairly complimented – sort of like when somebody calls me “weird”. If I’m going to cultivate the persona, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised when others jump to the conclusion that I really must be so, even when somebody sees through the smokescreen and outs me to the Internet at large.
Prestidigitation (what a groovy-cool word) aside, when I’m taking pictures, I really want the perfect shot from the get-go, and generally only want to open Photoshop to resize the images for my blogs. Sometimes, though, Hilary Federwhore insists on taking the shot exactly as she sees it in her viewfinder, completely ignoring the vision in my mind.
At other times, she will just play the bitch and focus on something behind the very obvious, perfectly-centered object that is my intended focal point, prompting me to swear like the sailor me ol’ Da’ used to be. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
“…and speaking of ‘apples’…” (Har Har), I saw this HUGE field of them on my Walk-About yesterday, and got some really nice shots. The “field” was the four-foot width of grass, a median of sorts, running the length of Wellington St., and those apples are really tiny, little crab apples that can be encircled with the thumb and forefinger, so the vision in my head was probably a little over-the-top to begin with.
Hil cooperates beautifully when I break all the “how-NOT-to-treat-your-electronics” rules, in that she has survived being dropped into puddles (accidentally), being set down in wet bathtubs (several times now, but still, accidentally), getting caught in recent, sudden torrential rainstorms, and being splashed by passing cars. She refuses to die. Granted, I haven’t drowned her in coffee yet, but that’ll no doubt happen at some point. I’ll let you know how that goes.
Yesterday, to get the POV you see in “Applefield Sky”, I set her down in wet grass. On purpose. Even with her ass wet and freezing, Hil is a trooper, and gamely took the shot, but she was pissed off enough to leave the traffic and buildings in it, and this was the raw result:
Not the vision in my head.
The day before, I had snapped a “Skyscape” picture, as I had told David McMahon I was going to break the flower addiction with a new subject.
Crap photo if ever I saw one.
So I spent waaaay too much time last night in Photoshop, removing the traffic and buildings from the “apple” shot and superimposing the result over the “skyline” shot, when I was supposed to be doing homework. And waaaay too much time today, writing this post, when I’m supposed to be doing homework and clogging up the vacuum with several sweaters’ worth of cat hair.
But, hey – I am a Prestidigitator. That’s what I do.