Apparently several of you were frightened by the last blogpost about mean-spirited Freckleface. Do not despair, she's only a poseur whose boobs are wrapped too tightly in synthetic fabrics, thereby resulting in a most negative purview. Plus, I can be ferocious when need be and when my camera equipment is imperiled.
Interesting sidebar of sorts:
On a gig a few summers ago I was hired to photograph several buildings for a developer and I was using my trusty Subaru as a stepladder, as I do from time to time. You get the car into position and climb on top.
So during this gig I was up and down, up and down and on one of the ups I came crashing down on the hood and my instant thought was to protect the camera, not me and my bones.
That's being a pro.
To hell with personal injury - it's a lot cheaper to fix my biological contusions than those injuries to a delicate electronic machine.
Talked to Canadian Georgie last night who said that sometimes he can't understand the American jargon of epinw. So I regaled him with my best Canadian impersonation:
Let's get some Timbits and crullers, ay?
Canadians, they look so much like us but are so... different.
Still shocked by the Missy Elliott song Let's Work It which they play on top pop radio. As I wrote to my pal Matthew Guru it puts that Tootsie Roll song of yore to absolute shame.
Tomorrow I'm attending the grand ol' opening of Robbie from the Goos' recording studio opening and before that I have an exclusive with Sheila Divine (or so I made the p.r. lady promise me) at a to-be-divulged -tomorrow location.
I'm breaking my past rules and will be out all day tomorrow/T-G Eve, shooting like a madwoman and perhaps tippling a few to boot.
All.
Turkey & all those starchy fixins of love.