Hey loser! Way to take a great blog idea and eff it up.

I’ve wanted to do this blog of really cheesy band promo photos for some time. I had a free afternoon and decided to get started. (I Googled the concept, just to be safe.)

This bastard beat me to it. By about a month.

Bad Band Photos

Thing is, I would have done soooo much better! (Insert non-ironic whining noise, pouty face and injured air) I mean, he’s updated ONCE in the last month. You should have to submit a proposal before stealing a coveted domain name like that.

Bastard.

My dream of combing mockery, photography and music — three things I adore — are thus forever dashed.

“I didn’t know girls’ night was so complicated”

There was an emotional void, and it needed filling:

♦ Brittani’s romantic life has suffered some … setbacks … lately
♦ I hadn’t seen April in weeks
♦ We’d all been working too hard, and I for one have been far too much of a homebody lately

Solution?

A good old-fashioned Girls’ Night.

Whilst preparing to add the whipped cream topping: "Here, you stir, I'll get it ready ... Oh, get it? Because it's 'Reddi'-Wip!"

Brittani and I agreed that there are various must-haves for an authentic Girls Night:

♦ A happy, crowd-pleasing movie
♦ Unhealthy victuals
♦ Booze
♦ Nail polish

I searched valiantly for little umbrellas, but to no avail ... I did find neon bendy straws, however.

We purchased all the ingredients needed for spiked faux-Italian soda, and Brittani crafted delicious concoctions for us. I also found some blackberry cobbler ice cream … heaven on earth.

Heaven. on. earth.

We lamented the lack of Pretty Princesses or Mall Madness – it would have completed the joyous archetype, but unfortunately/fortunately, none of us owned either.

We were quickly hungry, but as April started to put the pizza in the oven, Brittani stopped her in horror.

“You can’t put it in like that!” she said, aghast. She quickly started re-arranging the pepperoni slices haphazardly bunched in the middle of the pizza. “It has to be modular!”

After rampant giggling thwarted her first two attempts, Brittani coached herself, saying "Focus .... FOCUS ... " as her legs slowly rose into the air.

While we waited for the pizza and fries to bake, we started painting our nails.

Apart from an indistinguishable shade of light pink for my sister’s wedding two winters ago, I hadn’t painted my nails since I was maybe 16. Not surprisingly, I ended up begging April to help … and so did Brittani.

April was our lifesaver -- she only painted her toenails, and so as we waited for our fingernails to dry, she patiently performed any task we couldn't ourselves ... even fastening my belt for me after I used the bathroom.

(Photo by Brittani) I'm actually really digging my nails. It was distracting at first, but I'm enjoying the "girliness" of it. It's a fun change of pace to have something so frilly.

Brittani: "Men WISH they could have that mustache."

As for the movie, we went with a tried-and-true feelgood classic.

It was a wonderful night, all in all. Let’s do it again soon, yes?

Huh – 11/20/2009

  ALIENATED CONCLUSIONS: “What If Black Women Were White Women?”

“White female features would be declared violent. Their ‘jagged’ thin lips, ‘knife sharp’ noses, and ‘harsh’ jaw lines would be nature’s way of expressing why men have a natural preference for the soft features of black women. Soft lips, soft cheekbones, and soft, round noses would be proof of natural femininity. Full, pink lips and large, dark eyes would become associated with virginal black girls whose purity must not be compromised. Black female features would thus be said to represent youth.”

A news editor at my paper is a drug dealer. Or a prostitute.

Not really.

But that’s what this one woman must think. 

                                                                         ♦                                                                        

10:30 p.m.
Courtney dials “Mark”’s number from the company director, posted at everyone’s desk, to check something in a story. A woman groggily answers, to her surprise (“Mark” is unmarried.)

Courtney: “Oh …. um, is Mark there?”

Woman, paraphrased: “You all need to update your numbers or something, because people keeping calling here for Mark at all hours of the night. Make a note or something. There is no Mark here.”

                                                                         ♦                                                                        

His number is wrong on the directory; and since most of the calls for him at “home” would come from 9 p.m. to midnight … well, I’m sure this woman has a low opinion of him.

Or a very high opinion.

I’m in love with a cowboy poet

His voice is like dark honey; his skin as smooth as a well-oiled saddle. He has the tender affection of a veterinarian but the rough love of a rancher.

(Funny thing is, I can’t stand his writing — but what does respect really have to do with true love anyway?)

Baxter Black is the embodiment of cowboy poetry in motion, and now, thanks to a few clicks, he’s all mine.

Photo by Michael Schumaker, copyright Amarillo Globe-News

Making Baxty my desktop background is the best decision I’ve made since coming to the Globe-News.

♦ Baxter Black’s official Web site
♦ His Wikipedia page

Overheard in the Newsroom, AGN-style (Part II)

♦ Slot: “The other day, we had some questions for (the news editor), so I called him, and he didn’t know the answer. He said, ‘I don’t know,’ and I shouted that to (the assistant copy editor). Then (the news editor) got upset and said, ‘Don’t tell him I said that. Make it sound more elegant. Not just “I don’t know.” ‘ “

♦ Designer: “Everybody knows that unicorns are the basis of Thanksgiving.”

♦ Associate news editor: “I should have made some holiday cookies out of Spam and entered them into the (Amarillo cookie) contest.”

♦ Designer, concerning Ireland taking over the world: “If there were little red-headed babies running around all over the place, the world would be fucking adorable.”

♦ Female copy editor: “I really think I could pull off a mustache. I’m going to stand by this.”

♦ Copy editor: “I hate corgis. They’re little hot dogs with bat ears on short stubby legs. They probably kill babies at night.”
♦ Slot: “They’re too short to kill babies.”

♦ Associate news editor, re: a freelancer: “She needs the phone version of a pinched nerve. Sometimes I’ve just gotta cut her off, gotta go.”

♦ News editor, arguing about story prominence at budget meeting: “I see your knife-wielding gorilla and raise you one French sex-games slaying.”

♦ Slot: “The only dreams I have about sex are when other people are doing it.”

♦ Slot: “Oh no! (The obituary clerk) brought in a human child to work!”
♦ Copy editor: “As opposed to …?”
♦ Slot: “A vampire child.”

♦ Designer, re: an Onion article about Taco Bell taking a roommate to battle the recession: “I wish Taco Bell was my roommate. Or maybe Wienerschnitzel. Couldn’t live with McDonald’s, though.”

♦ Designer 1: “I don’t like that our paper comes from Staples. I wish it came from — “
♦ Designer 2: “– Dunder Mifflin?”
♦ Designer 1: “That’d be awesome.”

♦ Copy editor: “I was searching on ThinkExist.com for a quote for the word of the day, ‘miff,’ and I accidentally typed ‘muff.’ Freudian slip?”

♦ Designer: “I think the point of having children is so that you have someone to make funeral arrangements for you.”

♦ Copy editor, referring to Fort Hood shooter Nidal Malik Hasan: “He looks like a drunk John Belushi but without a lot of hair.”

♦ Copy editor: “What do you call a dinosaur who also refers to itself as a ‘large reptile’ and ‘extinct species’? . . .  B: ‘A thesaurus.’”

♦ Slot: “I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with the word ‘boner’ today.”

♦ News editor: “You should have all the stories, I just sent ‘AHF’ … but ’stabbing’ is going to be killed.”

♦ Copy editor: “It’s not like they’re going to have a stripper come on stage and throw up. It’s the CMAs. Someone will probably just get hit by a truck.”

Making mallets and swinging sticks

Crash.

Wednesday night I headed over to Bikelife, Alex’s bike shop, to watch the guys craft mallets out of ski/hiking poles and ABS piping. I saw some familiar faces from Sunday, and met a fair amount of new people as well — including Sher Kahn the cat.

Mark measuring his piping

George working on his mallet

Mark drilling

Afterward, I borrowed a beautiful black and white bike named “Yang” from Alex (her virgin ride, apparently) and we rode to the underground parking garage that was to be their winter haven. This was the whole reason I had come – to photograph this thoroughly modern sport in a paradigmatic urban setting.

I managed to shoot just one frame before security guards kicked us out.

The guys said it had only happened once or twice before; they figured we’d arrived too early in the night, and they decided to avoid that location for a few weeks.

We hopped back on our bikes and returned to the basketball courts at Amarillo College where they’d played on Sunday.

It was too dark for me to shoot with my dinosaur 28-200mm 3.5/5.6f lens, so I switched to my 17-55mm 2.8f; but of course, this isn't the kind of lens you really want for sports shooting.

It’s supposed to “snow” here today (2-3 inches, hardly counts), so I’m not sure if they’ll be going out again. But I want to photograph them at least a few more times — I think it’ll be a good exercise for me.

Pun, naturally, intended.

Remember that Halloween wedding Alex was going to?

Well, it wasn’t a costume wedding, as Brittani and I had hoped — but the couple definitely kept the date in mind.

The invitation:

(I removed the last names for privacy)

I just thought it was a fun way to spice up a traditional wedding without going overboard.

Also, my latest Internet addiction is The Wedinator: “Trashing your special day is our prime directive”

All photos by Alex, obviously.

L-R: Bride, flower girl (note the pumpkin bucket), bridesmaid, bridesmaid, bridesmaid

The cake!

In addition to a traditional dinner, the reception also featured a table full of candy.

Gratuitous cute picture

Pumpkin’s new sleeping spot makes it quite difficult to brush my teeth.

Bike polo is awesome.

… so I didn’t actually participate, for two main reasons: A) poor Suzi Q, my bike, is nesting in Lincoln; and B) based on past experiences, I’m quite sure I can’t bike one-handed well enough to also wield a polo stick.

Also, I’m a putz.

Photo by Danh

However, it was a refreshing challenge to photograph Danh and his friends, and I plan to do so again the next two or three times they play — one of those rounds I’ll have to hop on Danh’s bike and give it a whirl.

For the uninitiated, bike polo is played thus (at least by Danh’s friends):

♦ Using the end of the barrel (not the side), you have to hit the ball into the goal (in this case, between two orange cones).
♦ If your foot touches the ground, you have to “check in” by hitting your stick on the middle post of either boundary fence.
♦ Once a team scores, both teams retreat to the ends of the “field”; the ball is placed in the middle, and at the same time, everyone rushes for it.
♦ No high sticking

(Did I forget any, Danh?)

Also … they fall down a lot. Next time, I want to get photos of epic crashes.