It could be the logo, with it’s gleeful morphing of the good ol’ swastika - and the decision to pair that logo with a mascot sired by Superman.  I’m guessing that whoever designed all this has little awareness of either history or philosophy - and compared to my quite limited grasp of both, that’s pretty fracking lame.  I mean, if the context was even vaguely Ayurvedic, or anywhere in the realm of eastern spiritualism, the swastika is fair game - a billion Indians can’t all be wrong.  But this is on a Superman-style outfit, for a gym which is, by nature, about the aesthetics of strength.  If the designer of the outfit has somehow seen this blog post, as unlikely as that may be, and is mystified by my ponderings, I can only suggest they google search hitler+superman (and +eugenics, maybe).

My intriguedness might also stem from something a bit less dogmatic, something more intuitively designerish to do with form and function and all that jazz.  It might be that dressing a gym mascot with a fake muscle-suit in order to impress potential customers is akin to dressing an unshaven hobo in a silk business suit  and asking us to open a bank account.  Oh, but hang on, that’s pretty much what most bank ads have ever been, and will ever be … oh.

Ahem.  Carry on.

Every now and then, once in a blue moon, I wish I had a polarising filter for my GRD.

Every now and then.

Oh, sorry, rewind …

There was a fire up the street from my house last night:

The first siren stopping nearby was enough for me to mute the TV.  The second siren coming from another direction got me out the door, with boots on and the Ricoh GRD in pocket.  I almost ran back for my DSLR when I saw the glow, but I’m glad I didn’t because the firemen had extinguished the blaze in a few minutes and I probably would have missed even this throwaway shot of the flames.

So, I’m snapping the fire engines out the front of the house when a night-gowned woman, a neighbour of the affected house, points at my camera and asks the question in the title of this post.  “Is what appropriate?” I asked back.

“Taking photos.  Y’know, what with the things that have been happening in Victoria lately,”  she replied.

A bit confused, I replied that I couldn’t see the link between the devastating bushfires over 1,000 km away and a small housefire a block from from my house (a fire in which nobody was even injured, I might add).  Yes, I thought it was appropriate to photograph.  It’s news.

She shrugged, and continued, “As long as you’re okay with that on your conscience.”

Up ’til she said that I’d merely assumed she was a bit media-washed and ignorant, but it now I started thinking of her as a bitch, as well.

And her conscience is okay with judging the morals of strangers that she knows nothing about, in circumstances which are out of her depth?  Or something like that, is what I replied.  I was getting a bit angry by then, so I can’t remember verbatim, but I’ll pretend I was half as eloquent.  I did point out that I’m as much a photographer as anything else, that such photos could be quite newsworthy to the local rags - she made some argument that implied my making money would make the photos worse, so I asked what about photojournalists?  She said they’re okay because it’s their job (i.e. they’re paid to do it) …

You can see how it was heading, the argument was getting not just circular, but mobius strip-like, and it was clear that I needed to get away from this confused harpy of the ethical shallows.  I thanked her for her opinions, and continued taking my photos.  She returned to her home, still frowning.

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Christ on a bike, I’m getting sick of this mindless distrust of photographers. The stupidest thing is that it’s fanned by the big media organisations, who just happen to rely on … you guessed it, photography/image making. It’s a frackin’ snake eating its own tail, I tell ya.  Something’s gotta give.

The only thing more confounding than ignorance is the willingness to spread that ignorance around, like a farmer spreading shit.

(* Top title quote from Mervyn Peake’s Titus Alone, part of the near painfully wonderful Gormenghast trilogy.)

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My favourite swear word this week is fudgelick.  As in, “You can fudgelick all you like, but I’m still calling the cops.”  Or, “That guy Enrico is a real fudgelick, he’s never in trouble.”

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As you may have guessed, the Bossman finally sent me a reminder note about this blog.  Again.  Terribly patient chap.  So I really should do something to justify such illustrious real estate, no?  To borrow from Bart Simpson:  I can’t promise to try … but i will try to try.  Wait and see.  I even bought a diary this year, so you never know how organised I’ll be.

Isn’t that how they taught the song at school?

Flaps is my current favourite curse word, along with its derivatives: flappy, flappish, flappity etc. A particularly broad-minded female friend assures me it’s quite offensive, the opinion reinforced by the look* she gave me when i said it in conversation. Huzzah, a swear word that still works!

If one really wants to offend, the F-word is well prefaced by words like piss-stained, oozing, odourous and so on.

I’m rather hoping this becomes more widespread in use.

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(Ahem.)

(I’m not a misogynist, Mum, honest.) 

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So, you may have noticed I’ve been away from the world of blogging for a while, after initially only briefly dipping my toes. Hello again, blogsphere. All three of you. I’ve decided to give it another go. The concept needs re-jigging a bit, and I have to dig up the random paper jottings that may or may not be worth expanding, but bear with me and you may be entertained yet.

“I was watching where I was going. It’s lucky for you that I was.”

After all, it wouldn’t have been my ankles getting broken if I hadn’t seen him and reacted in time. Nope.

I mean, come on, if you’ve spent five minutes in a city you know the deal - respect the flow of traffic, car and foot, and if you choose to interrupt it either have a good reason or be prepared to take the consequences (and either way, be careful). This oaf saw a stream of people walking from a pedestrian crossing, and was, himself, heading towards another crossing which was blocked by vehicle traffic. The polite and expedient thing to do would be for him to stand and wait until everyone had exited the active crossing, yet he impatiently (and pointlessly) chose to leap into the small gap before me - which I respectfully leave between me and the next person whenever I’m pushing the trolley, with an ankle-height pointy end, through a moving crowd - causing me to slam the brakes (i.e. my legs and arms) and jerk the trolley back. For him to then shout that I should “Watch where (I’m) going,” speaks of an obliviously arrogant self confidence, and is exactly the kind of ego that makes me despair at the usefulness of notions such as “cooperative society.” Someone has to tell people like him they’re idiots, or they’ll pass it on to their children as carelessly as they inflict it upon the world around them. Luckily for today’s throwback, I was wearing company livery and thus remained civil.

Some folks invite injury, and only defy natural selection because other people take action to avoid hurting them. As I once read on a t-shirt: “Some people are only alive because it’s illegal to kill them.” I suppose I should be grateful, because I suck at fighting, but that doesn’t stop me from resenting the random stupidity that washes through my senses every day. It just makes me more annoyed that we can still be such fucking stupid animals, after so many aeons of evolution. Don’t get me started on when I catch myself out.

Ook? Ook ook, OOOK!

Ook.
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SWEAR score: somewhere between 1 and 2. Because dicks like him also drive cars, and lead nations, too.
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(Trolley photo linked from the website of the good folks at Castle Forklifts. If you’re looking for any kind of mechanical lifting/lugging conveyance, their range appears unbeatable.)

I’m sure there’s something more cutting or profound to say, other than, “Idiots,” but it’ll have to do for now. Idiots.
Species Worthy Extinction Anxiety Rating: 2

This is not altruism. This is my therapy. I figure it’s better to shout quietly in text, on a page which nobody need suffer without choosing to, rather than shout on the busy street, splashing all and sundry with my bile whether they like it or not. Not everyone deserves that, and it’s nicer to err on the side of caution when judging a person’s stupidity in a crowd. Besides, I’d like to keep my job.

Somedays I feel like I’m suffocating on the insidious pollution that we, the human race, have created - environmental, cultural, social, aesthetic, moral and spritual smog all combined. I’ve been told that I’m oversensitive. So, “Canary” it is. Pay attention, cocksuckers.