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Использовал 3 вспышки YN-560. Одна над моделью в софтбоксе 80 см. остальные справа и слева для отрисовки модели.
The Firehydrant..chapter one..Busted..an excerpt from a story set in 1973/74
After that first court appearance in the Windsor courthouse I was sitting in the back of the paddy wagon being transported along with a few other criminals to the county bucket a five minute or so ride from the courthouse. I was still pretty high, if you look at it from a different perspective, I’d been high for about four or five years. Once, years earlier at the Don Gaol in Toronto, I was serving a four day weekend when these two cool hip looking Yankee dudes asked me what the prices were on the streets for weed and hash, shit like that. They had all the hippie trappings, long hair, hawk like features from looking over their shoulders too often. Briefly I thought maybe they were cops, plants, but they were Americans and had just left the O.R. in Guelph where they knew my buddy Coop de Grasser who was the head of the inmate committee at that time. I knew the difference in body language and voices from that of common pigs, they gave me that term, “we’ve been high for seven years, then we got busted” they had a Cheech and Chong quality about them especially in the eyes, they were crazies too, coming from California I could grasp their earlier introduction to the Herb.
Sitting in that wagon, (nic nac paddy whack, paddy wagon gonna take ya back, lock ya up and thro away the keys) handcuffed to some murderer or child molester, it just didn’t feel right, or seem right. I was not in the same criminal category as “those” criminals. They were bad, I just sold recreational drugs, which made people happy. I looked out the unmarked vans wired windows at some familiar sights. There was the Ambassador Bridge the Hippies at school had marched on the year before protesting for an end to the war in Vietnam while the Simon and Garfunkel song A Bridge Over Troubled Water played over loudspeakers. It was the same bridge Pete Kalci and self used to score the Hookers, buy the case of Ripple Wine, cross over to attend the Ravi Shankar and Traffic concerts. The very same bridge that took you to Ann Arbour and all the hip people living near those Michigan campuses. I was feeling greasy, very dirty, sweat was stinking up my armpits, my new blue leisure jacket was all wrinkled from being used as a pillow in the police station cell the night before where I once again carved the initials CTuna into the institutional paint.
Prison is a very sobering experience. That morning in the courtroom a man in his thirties, a violent robber, he threatened the people he robbed, gave them a smack with a gun to get their attention, you’d think this guy was rock solid, wouldn’t crack, no matter what. He started to ball when they gave him eight years in Federal Penitentiary, His lawyer had pleaded for leniency as he had a wife and a new baby on the way. You could tell the judge wasn’t swayed by this plea bargaining, he had to protect society from this monster repeat offender. Downstairs in the dungeon like remand cells I stayed away from him he was so emotionally distraught he might of lashed out at me.
You don’t get to pick your company in jail. At the county prison where I would be held for six weeks waiting for my trial and sentencing I was put through the usual routines, fingerprinted, again as I had already been fingerprinted at the police station the night before when I was arrested. At the county jail your clothes are taken from you and put in a bag with your name on them. The intake officer instructs you to have a shower in this big stall that was doorless. Afterwards you are instructed to stand there while a another officer sprays you for lice with a pressure mister that resembles a brass plant and weed sprayer similar to one you would use in your garden to kill bugs. All loose things like lighters, smokes, pills, cough candies, change, had been put into a manila envelope with your name on it at the police station downtown. This included my teacher/friends Don and Carol’s car keys to their car which I had parked on one of the upper floors at the Toronto Airport before taking the flight to Windsor. The paddy wagon driver another pink faced anglo saxon refugee handed that manila envelope over to the guard on duty when we arrived through the heavy steel gates and through a small brick lined tunnel into the courtyard of the very old county jail, the steel gates clanked shut automatically.
The desk guard had each of us answer some rudimentary questions, sex, race, age, education, religion, he looked startled and upset when he heard I was Taoist (pronounced Daoist). This was my spiritual flavour of the month, a Chinese faith based on the worship of Nature.
My bed for the next six weeks was located on the second tier of the three tiered old thick stone building built I would think in the last century. On this tier there were three other wards each ward holding a dozen cages/cells/cribs, each cell comprised of a steel bed a dull once stainless steel washbasin and a similar steel toilet without a seat, a piece of four inch square stainless steel was mounted above the sink, the mirror. The tier was designed to allow a single guard to patrol all four wards on the floor from the command centre located in the centre of the unit. There were always two guards on each floor one in the booth, the other always roaming. A roll of toilet paper had been issued to me as well as a cheap toothbrush and some tooth powder a threadbare facecloth and a towel big enough to dry your face and hands. A twenty five watt bulb glowed in the ceiling above, it would be on from six in the morning, till lights out at ten.
Home Sweet Home. My roommates were of various criminal backgrounds, there was a tall skinny biker with greasy yellow hair like the kind a worker at a wrecking yard might have, he was in for rape, his partner slept in the next set of cells, a portly unshaven fellow possibly related to a black bear or Kentucky mountain person, he was also in for rape, the two of them belonged to the Loners M.C, the local biker club. Next to me in the adjoining cell was a guy named Bill Hoskins who was quiet, had a scared look on his face, hadn’t shaved in a while, slightly receding, looked a bit like Garth Hudson of the Band, he was in on a smuggling marijuana charge and was not pleased with his circumstances. Little Mikey was the ward comic, shit disturber, go between, who was the one who bridged social classes and intermingled with all types, a chatterbox. There were a few quiet chaps and there was a young likeable guy all tattooed with crudely tattooed LOVE and HATE on his knuckles who it seemed had spent most of his young life in jail. He was just hoping to get sent to a prison in the area The Burtch Institution, he spoke of Burtch the way we would usually talk about home. Besides this motley crew there was one guy who everyone liked, I don’t recall his name, it might have been Jim he was coming down from using junk, he was dark haired and sort of reminded me of the Veteres from my youth, my neighbourhood Mt.Dennis, this Jim, he was street wise, quick to talk, he’d been around for his young twenty something age.
In very quick fashion a new person is sized up by the powers on the ward of any prison in any country, and it isn’t very long before the new prisoners place in the prison pack is established. For some reason my popularity irritated the power and after a few days I was asked to give the bad guys smokes while we were out in the small yard strolling around getting fresh air, I gave this some thought and passed out a few TMs as tailor made cigarettes were called but not without some resistance, the bikers weren’t very pleased to have a smart ass comparatively wealthy guy like myself around who might wrestle the minds of the weaker members of the pack from them.
As usual I became quite popular, my ability to tell stories and write stories about the fabled life in Toronto, the apartment building full of drugs (Rochdale) had every ones eyes bulging out. By this time two black brothers from Detroit were in the same ward with a minor infraction, they passed themselves off as bona fide black 'gangstas', I bought their story, they needed a connection to some crystal meth in TO and I turned them on to a pair of bikers who were living in the west end and whom I thought might appreciate the referral. As it was I had a list of phone numbers hidden in my shoes under the lining which along with some of my street clothes I was allowed to wear after they had been fumigated and cleaned since I was on remand and not yet officially a ward of the government. The black guys got bail fast, I never saw them again. Later in life the guys I referred them to paid me a visit as I worked the day shift at the Queensbury Arms, they weren’t pleased with my introduction. It could have been curtains for me, had I not been able to think on my feet. They thought the black guys may have been cops..
There was a crooked screw (guard) on the floor who for a price would smuggle in drugs and other contraband for those who had money and cravings. His name was Sidney and he was very tight with the diverse criminal element. In every prison man ever created there have been bent guards. Up to this time in life I had only known the soft side of Windsor, the niceties of the University scene, this was a much different perspective as the other folk I was now incarcerated with thought this situation as one of their schools of higher learning, a step in the ladder of criminality.
To help make time pass we played cards at the larger than picnic table sized metal tables that were bolted to the floor along with metal benches that were also bolted I suppose so no one would use them to hit each other with. A box shaped colour TV set sat in one corner of the ward. It was hung on one of those hospital style adjustable mounts and it was only put on at certain times, in the evenings from 7 to 10 or a bit later if something that was important was being shown. On weekends that TV might be on all day, starting with cartoons in the morning, which I recall quite a few of the people enjoying, then sports, and then hockey at night. There wasn’t much to do on weekends everybody’s routines ground to a halt.
The news story of the day was Richard Nixon’s impeachment from office. The previous year it seemed as if I had lost touch with events in the world. On reflection it may have been a lack of interest in the news that television and other media fed you. Lacking very many options at this time I began to join the herd and watched and laughed at All in The Family. The dreaded hockey games were on Saturday nights. Hockey is a Canadian staple and there were fierce conversations about various teams. Being so close to Detroit made for a lively rivalry, there weren’t as many teams in the league, it was an easier sport to appreciate.
Besides these time fillers I wrote pages and pages of short stories, some lyrical, like poems or songs. One in particular was a rhyming story about a “Gypsy Caravan” that parked under the full moon and where my lost love wept for me as I’d been sent to war. There were numerous verses and choruses, it was in my eyes a grand work. Several of the inmates would gather around the table as I would recite these stories, I recall Jim the Junkie giving the story his blessing and that was quite important for me as his sense of beauty and appreciation was different than the others. The other prisoners on remand held him in awe for some reason, he was like a Robin Hood type, a criminal All Star born and raised in Windsor. He got out on bail and a short while later word filtered back that he had died of an overdose of heroin and I always felt good that I had painted this nice scene for him of gypsies and love along a riverbank in golden days, like a Van Morrison lyric and his praise still ranks with the praise of others given me over the years.
Perhaps that is where my new nickname came from, that story about the gypsies. Around then someone tagged me with the title ‘Gypsy’ and it stuck right through my prison life. It took a while at first to get used to the new title, after all, nicknames were nothing new to me, as a kid I had been called Brooks by Bud Walford after Brooks Robinson the ballplayer with the Baltimore Orioles, Barb Sue Kevin and Shane often called me Weaver “Hey Weave” when we were younger playing cards on Victoria Blvd, then early on I used to carve my initials into the poured concrete sidewalks all over our area called Mount Dinky. C Tuna I would carve, using a stick or a piece of rock. Around this time there was a cartoon character called Charlie Tuna who was seen in tv advertisements for the Starkist Tuna company, there was a jingle with the ads and the ads were based on the premise that only the finest Tunas were good enough for Starkist customers and old Charlie a suave, Jackie Gleason type of Tuna with slicked back hair was always thrown back in to the sea. C Tuna was scraped also in the odd prison cell of Toronto’s #12, #31 and #52 Divisions as well as the gritty Don Gaol and now Windsor. One time, in Toronto I woke up from a drunken stupor and a police man at the #52 Divison asked me, “are you Charles Gregory aka C Tuna?” I replied I was, and was curtly charged with being drunk in a public place. I went back to sleep and was released in the morning, I couldn’t have been much more than sixteen.
My long relationship with the drink started around fifteen or so. While hanging out at Nick’s Pool Hall on Weston Road near Eglinton I met guys who were a bit older and liked to drink, especially on the weekends. An older guy named Bud a good pool player would go to the beer store and buy us a box of beer, I had developed a taste for it. Today, when I reflect on this behavior I have difficulty in recalling why I drank so much to the point often of blacking out as the consumption of beer became mixed with that of hard alcohol, whiskey, scotch etcetera. A common Saturday night would find me drinking a dozen beers with a mickey of Johnny Walker red as a chaser. At one time, I had been arrested six weekends in a row for drinking under age, drinking in a public place, drunk and disorderly…My mom was fed up bailing me out on Sunday mornings at the local police holding cells, located in the police stations, 31 division and 12 division. The fine for such behavior was usually $25 or $35 dollars or three days in jail. Not once do I recall anyone saying, this boy needs counseling. I may have been such a ‘tough nut’ that they felt it would have been a waste of time.
My friend George Holmes loved shouting out “here comes Tuna Fish” up at the corner of Keele and Eglinton during my greaseball period. This period took place between frat days and hippy days. Around town in my greaseball days that name C Tuna was recognizable up in the Junction, over on St Clair at Blackthorn and as well at Lansdowne and St Clair, also farther west towards Jane and Wilson and in Weston proper. I suppose the greasers up at Dufferin and Eglinton like Kenny Tanaka and Danny MacDonald had also known my AKA. It wasn’t that I was a prize fighter or anything a moniker was more a Title like that of a knight or a duke, sort of a right of passing, like a coming of age. Lots of guys had nick names just like the TV gangsters of the day, or the good guy bad guys in cowboy films. Names that quickly come to mind are, Hook, Coop de Grassser, Gooch, Scarecrow, Mars, Jake the Snake, Crazy Ivan, Fat Jack Hamilton, Mod, Vern the Tern, Dump, Butler, The Kid, Toot, Count, one guy, my friend Dave Wellwood had several nick names, The Goat, News, The General, Pee Wee and on and on.
Chassly Gangbusters was a favourite of the Hook and Coop years, Herbie used to like calling me Storch it was his invention he’d say it ‘Storch’ then back off a few steps in case I’d give him a smack, I always gave him a nasty sneer when he called me that. Charlie, Chuck, Chas, but almost never Charles. My name comes from a friend of my dads, Charles Bishop who died in the second war. Lately Schmiddy has been calling me the Kaliph of Keene which I really like. In the tradition of moms father Leon Yamel, actually Noel Lemay I’ve often tagged myself as Selrahc Yrogerg, this dates back to my saying words backwards while I waited to get on the field at the Smythe Park baseball league.
After a few days in the ward I could almost feel the drugs leaving my system and after two or three weeks I’d never been so clean, voluntarily. Even when I had the Hepatitis at Rochdale earlier that winter I was toking the finest hash and bud available. I must admit there was a new clarity to my mental comprehension, I could not adjust myself with other substances, alcohol included.
The food was awful, repetitive, I smoked like a chimney, there was a few hundred dollars in my pocket when I was picked up, I don’t recall the figure exactly. These funds in prison buy a lot of tobacco! To keep the peace I gave out as many smokes as required to avoid the bad guys wanting to shank me. We played cards night and day to pass the time, if anything I can remember that in particular, the time passing real slowly. That’s what more seasoned guys were saying that once you got where you were going, once you were sentenced you would find that your days took on structure and time was easier to do. This kind of time, waiting to be sentenced is called Dead Time and rightly so.
Michael Snyder the lawyer supplied free via the government legal aid program was a little lame in court during my first appearance. I took him aside and chewed him out. I wrote a letter to the court system, maybe the judge or the Attorney Generals Office, I’m not sure. The crooked screw Sidney read the letter and informed the lawyer of my dissatisfaction this got his attention and he did a fine job afterwards. I wonder if that letter ever made it out of that place.
Bill Hoskins as it turns out was in for a serious smuggling rap that he was not telling any of us about. He was on a sailing boat that had come up from the Bahamas area loaded with marijuana. The pot was hidden in false walls built into the customized ship, tons and tons of gange. As advisory counsel for my defense he nixed my hand written ten page dialogue about my historical accounting of the events leading up to my arrest, from the dysfunctional family situation with big Al at home which I used as my starting point in the dialogue, nixed the U.I.C. appeals process where I was cut off pogey for quitting my position without proper reason, nixed it all. He said to get a bunch of people to write letters who could speak for your good side, which in point of fact wasn’t so long ago, just the previous year I was bringing the teachers apples and cleaning the chalk off of the blackboards.
Turns out Sidney the crooked guard did me a favour by reading the mail that I had addressed to the law society and others regarding my lawyers lameness. When the lawyer caught wind of this he rushed in to appease me. Three weeks in the bucket passed and I was anxious to get on with things, when asked how I wished to plead it was a no brainer, I pled guilty. In court the judge found me guilty of all the charges, trafficking in narcotics, marijuana, hashish, peyote, acid, there was no blow left and I guess they didn’t bother to analyze the salt like crystal meth, there wasn’t much of it. I sat in the dock, again resolved, resolved not to break down and cry when sentenced like that other guy had done. I had to wait three more weeks for sentencing as the judge had asked for a pre-sentence report, which is like a record of your life, the details of your life, your failures and your successes if any. I recall finding this worrisome, although in my mind, having recently attended university under trying (at home) circumstances as a mature student, I felt I was on the right track, just jumped off the track momentarily.
That morning back in the court holding cells this big young Coloured man, I repeat, this was a big, strong athletic mean and angry twenty year old who wore those thick soled, tan coloured boots that motorcycle riders wore in the day, Fry Boots was their name. A diddler, a full grown twenty something farm kid from the sticks had just been returned to the holding cells in the basement of the court house, he walked with his head down, ashamed and afraid at the same time. As if in a movie the cell area was dimly lit an invitation for terror.
The farm kid went into a cell at the back of the block, none of the cell doors were locked. In court it came out that a couple of young girls had been molested the day before, quite young, under ten or so. You know how they say the jail system has its own way of getting folk, well this kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That big negro boy took his hatred out on that boy, he went into that cell and put the boots to the farm kids face, his gut, his balls, his legs, you name it, he got hit real hard. Nobody, no prisoner, no guard interfered I just watched stunned, I didn’t try to break it up, I just watched in my own kind of terror, that’s the way it can be in prison for diddlers they get no mercy, they are garbage. The guards very slowly came and broke it up, put the diddler in a solitary area, by this time his assailant had left the cell, he just brushed pass us all, me the other prisoners, the guards and took a seat in a cell holding his head in his hands, the screws never even bothered to ask what had happened, then we all went to the jailhouse in the paddy wagon, the diddler got separate transportation. Funny, I never saw that black guy again, he may have gone up to court and been given bail.
At the county bucket they put the diddler in a cell on my ward. That night we got him there as well but in a different way. Myself and others made a mixture of shit and piss, cold tea, spit and saliva, toilet water any vile substance we could find and poured it all over him as he lay in a back corner of the ward, not saying a word, afraid for his life, afraid to say anything, I mean we really humiliated him, I was a big part of this humiliation, this hazing, it was worse than a military blackballing. I’d been involved as a recipient in a mild fraternity hazing, I suppose that is where I got the idea. Over the years I’ve had a lot of remorse about this event but I still hold that this punishment, this prison tar and feathering was better than him losing his life, his balls or an eye or an ear.
They moved the big scared blonde haired blue eyed farm boy diddler from the ward that night put him into solitary confinement. In the visiting room the next day Frankie Herbert’s dad Frank Sr. came to visit, my first visit in nearly a month. Mr. Herbert worked as a travelling salesman for a big novelty company, he toured Ontario selling kitschy stuff like bingo markers, and roulette wheels and all sorts of things fundraising organizations use in their work and that large corporate stores stocked. At the same time Frank Sr. was visiting the diddler was visiting his dad, telling his dad through his pulverized face that I was one of his enemies, one of the perpetrators of his black eyes and bruises. That diddler, he don’t know how close he come to dying in that cell downtown. Frank Sr. he just looked at this farm kid with the shiners, looked at me, Frank Sr. he knew what the score was, he just shook his head, my father figure, surrogate dad visiting his son in gaol. Years earlier, Mr. Herbert had put up bail for me when the RCMP had placed a bag of pot in our groups car (actually a stretch Cadillac limo) as we tried to enter the Rockwood Festival. We had heard via the radio that everyone was getting busted that heading to the concert so we had stopped and stashed our goods in the woods, a ways from the entrance. The other five people were given bail but I was refused because of a previous minor offence. The charges were all thrown out in court later. I told the RCMP, this guy last name of Ryan, that if I saw him on the streets, I would kick the shit of him!
A couple of university school chums paid a visit one day after I had been sentenced, Tim, a bright musician type from the university showed up with my old baked and breaded sardine dinner girlfriend, Mary Lewis. That was kind of them to show up at that depressing place, it was the last time I ever saw or heard from them except when I contacted Mary Lewis and she sent me a year book from the university. A book I looked at maybe twice then mysteriously wrapped in several windings of masking tape for thirty years and hid in a milk crate with several old photo albums on top, securing its hiding place, was that my soul in that book? Who was that guy?
Bill the Smuggler had a birthday card sent in from someone on the outside, in the card, on the nose of the clown they had poured some liquid LSD and Bill did some, offered me a taste, I declined, felt the surroundings not conducive to a good trip. Bill laid some on the bikers to secure their loyalty. Now here you have these three or four biker types running around all looney, higher than kites, grooving to the little AM radio playing in the corner, digging the tunes, staring at hallucinations only they could see. In a way it was like the lawyer in Easy Rider getting turned on, except these were bad guys, getting all soft and mushy, I stayed in my crib that night until the party settled down. I think I was scared the bikers might be able (through the power of acid) be able to see my true feelings for them. Like many a night I read to sleep. Dostoyevsky offered imaginable experiences to escape to.
Next day in the yard the bikers were hovering together, conspiring, they were good at that, at joining forces, intimidation by numbers. At some point this middle aged black inmate took an epileptic fit, started shaking all over, fell to the ground, I thought he had been shot, the guards blew their stupid whistles they thought someone had beaten the guy up. We all had to stand at attention while the screws came and took the fellow away on a stretcher. It was a cool forty five degree F morning, the sun was shining. The heavy grey cloth winter coats we’d been issued had to be turned in when we went back inside, it felt so good being out in the yard, the fresh air, the bit of Spring green showing on the small lawn. Another inmate pointed out where they used to do the hangings, there remained a shuttered doorway a few levels up I was also shown where they used to bury the bodies they had hung, this was becoming a real adult experience.
Jak szaleć to szaleć ahahah z Nulą i AnnMarii zapodałyśmy kolejnego lifta. Tym razem ja rzuciłam na tapetę boską pracę Mony! ♥
21x21cm
Inspired by this layout madeMona ♥
This is my 4th card for this challenge...the other 3 are in the bin! Finally created one that I like for this week’s SSS Flickr Challenge, and the theme is “Summertime Fun"!
In the summertime, I like to ‘Create’ with lots of bright, fun colors...I used circle die cuts and punches to create masks for the ‘bubbles’, and broke out this really fun die. A few clear sequins, and, that was it!
Thanks so much for stopping by ~
I think I should explain, this is a photo of a wall - nothing else - The image of the man on the right is mine and then superimposed on the wall and the elephant is also a photo I got in the zoo and he was in this pose. I just put it together. See the photo of the man HERE
www.flickr.com/photos/keithsproduction/5471996961/in/phot...
At 10:55PM on Tuesday, May 5, 2020 the Los Angeles Fire Department responded to the 1700 block of E 57th Street for a reported structure fire. The first arriving companies found a large (approximately 300’ x 500’) pallet yard with heavy fire showing. Additional resources were quickly requested as crews moved into the defensive mode.
Firefighters went to work on all four sides of this incident, conducting fire attack against several outbuildings in the compound of the yard while simultaneously establishing master streams to drown out the pallet fire. Downed, high voltage power lines created an additional safety hazard for crews to work around.
116 LAFD firefighters, assisted by several companies from Los Angeles County Fire Department, working under the command of Assistant Chief Antoine McKnight, declared a knockdown of the fire in one hour and four minutes, with no injuries reported. No residential homes outside of the compound were damaged.
This was a Major Emergency status structure fire and thus, per protocol, LAFD Arson and Counter-Terrorism Section (ACTS) responded and are actively investigating the cause of the fire.
© Photo by Garet Jatsek
LAFD Incident: 050520-1481
Connect with us: LAFD.ORG | News | Facebook | Instagram | Reddit | Twitter: @LAFD @LAFDtalk
PICTURE BY: Cacilia McMasters
Ava Jhamin For
Tribute To The Met Gala SL
I was inspired by all the amazing designs from the Met Gala. The strange thing for me it was not the celebs that grabbed my attention. It was actual gowns created by some amazing Chinese designers. The one in particular I haven't been in love with anything or anyone since my husband 30 years ago. God rest his soul. I will not reveal here as I am going to get it made if it's the last thing I do.
The Met Gala, formally called the Costume Institute Gala and also known as the Met Ball, is an annual fund raising gala for the benefit of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute in New York City. It marks the grand opening of the Costume Institutes annual fashion exhibit. Each year's event celebrates the theme of that year's Costume Institute exhibition, and the exhibition sets the tone for the formal dress of the night since guests are expected to choose their fashion to match the theme of the exhibit. Each year the event also has honorary celebrity event day chairpersons.
Theme: Chinese Through The Looking Glass
The Costume Institute Gala is a major fund raising benefit that serves as an opening celebration for the Institutes annual fashion exhibit. Following the event, the exhibition runs for several months.
The Gala is widely regarded as one of the most exclusive social events in New York and one of the biggest fund raising nights in the city
Anna Wintour, Vogue editor-in-chief and a chair of the event since 1995, oversees both the benefit committee and the guest list, with Vogue staffers helping assemble the list of invitees. The cost 25,000 per attendee......
STYLING:
Gown: Romance Couture
Dragon Fire Gown
Shoes:Woo Den Stilletos
Headpiece: Finesmith Zer Wreath Red
Bracelet: YF Nes Bracelet Ruby
Makeup: Madrid Solo Flirt V2 Golden
Glam Affair
Layla Lipstick risque
Nails: Candy Nails
Japanese Soul Gold
Eyelashes: Cat Eyes
Creating Healthy Work Environments
24-26 March 2022
Washington, DC, USA
Day 1 - 24 March 2022
Photos courtesy of EPNAC.com
This Italian girl create carnival-masks.
We saw her every year since we travel to the carnival but I've never had my CANON by the hand. This time I was a lucky guy and made some photos of the development of a typical Venecian carnival mask.
Unfortunately there was a window between us...
This is my best example of framing. I really the glasses and how they work with the sun. I chose this one, because the picture focuses on the frames of the glasses. To create contrast in my image, I lowered the exposure, and edited what was inside the frames of the glasses. The mood i was trying to create clam mood. Like when you walk outside, and just look everything around you, without a thought, just admiring.
Installed in the 1920s after a major renovation, the Jesus as the Good Shepherd window was created by Melbourne stained glass manufacturer Brooks, Robinson and Company Glass Merchants, who dominated the market in stained glass in Melbourne during the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s. The image of Jesus clutching a lamb is commonly found in windows such as these. The image refers to a passage in John's Gospel in the New Testament, wherein Jesus describes himself as the good shepherd. The image of the Good Shepherd is designed to remind parishioners of Jesus' love for all his sheep, even the black ones, and the value that each person has for him.
He stands benevolently with his shepherds' crook, clutching a lamb, whilst in the vignette below him at the bottom of the lancet window, Jesus is shown bringing his wayward flock safely into the safety of the barn. The sheep to his left looks wistfully up at him, whilst the lamb held in his arms in the main depiction is shown in the vignette draped over the crook of his arm.
The letters IHS appear intertwined in a monogram at the top of the lancet window. These letters are a contraction for "Iesus Hominum Salvator"; "Jesus, Savior of Men".
Built amid workers' cottages and terrace houses of shopkeepers, St. Mark the Evangelist Church of England sits atop an undulating rise in the inner Melbourne suburb of Fitzroy. Nestled behind a thick bank of agapanthus beyond its original cast-iron palisade fence, it would not look out of place in an English country village with its neat buttresses, bluestone masonry and simple, unadorned belfry.
St. Mark the Evangelist was the first church to be built outside of the original Melbourne grid as Fitzroy developed into the city's first suburb. A working-class suburb, the majority of its residents were Church of England and from 1849 a Mission Church and school served as a centre for religious, educational and recreational facilities. The school was one of a number of denominational schools established by the Church of England and was partly funded by the Denominational School Board.
St. Mark the Evangelist Church of England was designed by architect James Blackburn and built in Early English Gothic style. Richard Grice, Victorian pastoralist and philanthropist, generously contributed almost all the cost of its construction. Work commenced in 1853 to accommodate the growing Church of England congregation of Fitzroy. On July 1st, 1853, the first stone of St. Mark the Evangelist was laid by the first Bishop of Melbourne, The Right Rev. Charles Perry.
Unfortunately, Blackburn did not live to see its completion, dying the following year in 1854 of typhoid. This left St. Mark the Evangelist without an architect to oversee the project, and a series of other notable Melbourne architects helped finish the church including Lloyd Tayler, Leonard Terry and Charles Webb. Even then when St. Mark the Evangelist opened its doors on Sunday, January 21st, 1855, the church was never fully completed with an east tower and spire never realised. The exterior of the church is very plain, constructed of largely unadorned bluestone, with simple buttresses marking structural bays and tall lancet windows. The church's belfry is similarly unadorned, yet features beautiful masonry work. It has a square tower and broach spire.
Inside St. Mark the Evangelist Church of England it is peaceful and serves as a quiet sanctuary from the noisy world outside. I visited it on a hot day, and its enveloping coolness was a welcome relief. Walking across the old, highly polished hardwood floors you cannot help but note the gentle scent of the incense used during mass. The church has an ornately carved timber Gothic narthex screen which you walk through to enter the nave. Once there you can see the unusual two storey arcaded gallery designed by Leonard Terry that runs the entire length of the east side of building. Often spoken of as “The Architect’s Folly” Terry's gallery was a divisive point in the Fritzroy congregation. Some thought it added much beauty to the interior with its massive square pillars and seven arches supporting the principals of the roof. Yet it was generally agreed that the gallery was of little effective use, and came with a costly price tag of £3,000.00! To this day, it has never been fully utlised by the church. St. Mark the Evangelist has been fortunate to have a series of organs installed over its history; in 1854 a modest organ of unknown origin: in 1855 an 1853 Foster and Andrews, Hull, organ which was taken from the Athenaeum Theatre in Melbourne's Collins Street: in 1877 an organ built by Melbourne organ maker William Anderson: and finally in 1999 as part of major renovation works a 1938 Harrison and Harrison, Durham, organ taken from St. Luke's Church of England in Cowley, Oxfordshire. The church has gone through many renovations over the ensuing years, yet the original marble font and pews have survived these changes and remain in situ to this day. Blackwood reredos in the chancel, dating from 1939, feature a mosaic of the last supper by stained glass and church outfitters Brooks, Robinson and Company. A similar one can be found at St. Matthew's Church of England in High Street in Prahran. The fine lancet stained glass windows on the west side of St. Mark the Evangelist feature the work of the stained glass firms Brooks, Robinson and Company. and William Montgomery. Many of the windows were installed in the late Nineteenth Century.
The St. Mark the Evangelist Parish Hall and verger's cottage were added in 1889 to designs by architects Hyndman and Bates. The hall is arranged as a nave with clerestorey windows and side aisles with buttresses. In 1891 the same architects designed the Choir Vestry and Infants Sunday School on Hodgson Street, to replace the earlier school of 1849 which had been located in the forecourt of the church.
The present St. Mark the Evangelist's vicarage, a two-storey brick structure with cast-iron lacework verandahs, was erected in 1910.
I am very grateful to the staff of Anglicare who run the busy adjoining St. Mark's Community Centre for allowing me to have free range of the inside of St. Mark the Evangelist for a few hours to photograph it so extensively.
James Blackburn (1803 - 1854) was an English civil engineer, surveyor and architect. Born in Upton, West Ham, Essex, James was the third of four sons and one daughter born to his parents. His father was a scalemaker, a trade all his brothers took. At the age of 23, James was employed by the Commissioners of Sewers for Holborn and Finsbury and later became an inspector of sewers. However, his life took a dramatic turn in 1833, when suffering economic hardship, he forged a cheque. He was caught and his penalty was transportation to Van Diemen’s Land (modern day Tasmania). As a convicted prisoner, yet also listed as a civil engineer, James was assigned to the Roads Department under the management of Roderic O’Connor, a wealthy Irishman who was the Inspector of Roads and Bridges at the time. On 3 May 1841 James was pardoned, whereupon he entered private practice with James Thomson, another a former convict. In April 1849, James sailed from Tasmania aboard the "Shamrock" with his wife and ten children to start a new life in Melbourne. Once there he formed a company to sell filtered and purified water to the public, and carried out some minor architectural commissions including St. Mark the Evangelist in Fitzroy. On 24 October he was appointed city surveyor, and between 1850 and 1851 he produced his greatest non-architectural work, the basic design and fundamental conception of the Melbourne water supply from the Yan Yean reservoir via the Plenty River. He was injured in a fall from a horse in January 1852 and died on 3 March 1854 at Brunswick Street, Collingwood, of typhoid. He was buried as a member of St. Mark The Evangelist Church of England. James is best known in Tasmania for his ecclesiastical architectural work including; St Mark's Church of England, Pontville, Tasmania (1839-1841), Holy Trinity Church, Hobart, Tasmania (1841-1848): St. George's Church of England, Battery Point, Tasmania, (1841-1847).
Leonard Terry (1825 - 1884) was an architect born at Scarborough, Yorkshire, England. Son of Leonard Terry, a timber merchant, and his wife Margaret, he arrived in Melbourne in 1853 and after six months was employed by architect C. Laing. By the end of 1856 he had his own practice in Collins Street West (Terry and Oakden). After Mr. Laing's death next year Leonard succeeded him as the principal designer of banks in Victoria and of buildings for the Anglican Church, of which he was appointed diocesan architect in 1860. In addition to the many banks and churches that he designed, Leonard is also known for his design of The Melbourne Club on Collins Street (1858 - 1859) "Braemar" in East Melbourne (1865), "Greenwich House" Toorak (1869) and the Campbell residence on the corner of Collins and Spring Streets (1877). Leonard was first married, at 30, on 26 June 1855 to Theodosia Mary Welch (d.1861), by whom he had six children including Marmaduke, who trained as a surveyor and entered his father's firm in 1880. Terry's second marriage, at 41, on 29 December 1866 was to Esther Hardwick Aspinall, who bore him three children and survived him when on 23 June 1884, at the age of 59, he died of a thoracic tumor in his last home, Campbellfield Lodge, Alexandra Parade, in Collingwood.
Lloyd Tayler (1830 - 1900) was an architect born on 26 October 1830 in London, youngest son of tailor William Tayler, and his wife Priscilla. Educated at Mill Hill Grammar School, Hendon, and King's College, London, he is said to have been a student at the Sorbonne. In June 1851 he left England to join his brother on the land near Albury, New South Wales. He ended up on the Mount Alexander goldfields before setting up an architectural practice with Lewis Vieusseux, a civil engineer in 1854. By 1856 he had his own architectural practice where he designed premises for the Colonial Bank of Australasia. In the 1860s and 1870s he was lauded for his designs for the National Bank of Australasia, including those in the Melbourne suburbs of Richmond and North Fitzroy, and further afield in country Victoria at Warrnambool and Coleraine. His major design for the bank was the Melbourne head office in 1867. With Edmund Wright in 1874 William won the competition for the design of the South Australian Houses of Parliament, which began construction in 1881. The pair also designed the Bank of Australia in Adelaide in 1875. He also designed the Australian Club in Melbourne's William Street and the Melbourne Exchange in Collins Street in 1878. Lloyd's examples of domestic architecture include the mansion "Kamesburgh", Brighton, commissioned by W. K. Thomson in 1872. Other houses include: "Thyra", Brighton (1883): "Leighswood", Toorak, for C. E. Bright: "Roxcraddock", Caulfield: "Cherry Chase", Brighton: and "Blair Athol", Brighton. In addition to his work on St. Mark the Evangelist in Fitzroy, Lloyd also designed St. Mary's Church of England, Hotham (1860); St Philip's, Collingwood, and the Presbyterian Church, Punt Road, South Yarra (1865); and Trinity Church, Bacchus Marsh (1869). The high point of Lloyd's career was the design for the Melbourne head office of the Commercial Bank of Australia. His last important design was the Metropolitan Fire Brigade Headquarters Station, Eastern Hill in 1892. Lloyd was also a judge in 1900 of the competition plans for the new Flinders Street railway station. Lloyd was married to Sarah Toller, daughter of a Congregational minister. They established a comfortable residence, Pen-y-Bryn, in Brighton, and it was from here that he died of cancer of the liver on the 17th of August 1900 survived by his wife, four daughters and a son.
Charles Webb (1821 - 1898) was an architect. Born on 26 November 1821 at Sudbury, Suffolk, England, he was the youngest of nine children of builder William Webb and his wife Elizabeth. He attended Sudbury Academy and was later apprenticed to a London architect. His brother James had migrated to Van Diemen's Land in 1830, married in 1833, gone to Melbourne in 1839 where he set up as a builder in and in 1848 he bought Brighton Park, Brighton. Charles decided to join James and lived with James at Brighton. They went into partnership as architects and surveyors. The commission that established them was in 1850 for St Paul's Church, Swanston Street. It was here that Charles married Emma Bridges, daughter of the chief cashier at the Bank of England. Charles and James built many warehouses, shops and private homes and even a synagogue in the city. After his borther's return to England, Charles designed St. Andrew's Church, Brighton, and receiving an important commission for Melbourne Church of England Grammar School in 1855. In 1857 he added a tower and a slender spire to Scots Church, which James had built in 1841. He designed Wesley College in 1864, the Alfred Hospital and the Royal Arcade in 1869, the South Melbourne Town Hall and the Melbourne Orphan Asylum in 1878 and the Grand Hotel (now the Windsor) in 1884. In 1865 he had designed his own home, "Farleigh", in Park Street, Brighton, where he died on 23 January 1898 of heat exhaustion. Predeceased by Emma in 1893 and survived by five sons and three daughters, he was buried in Brighton cemetery.
Brooks, Robinson and Company first opened their doors on Elizabeth Street in Melbourne in 1854 as importers of window and table glass and also specialised in interior decorating supplies. Once established the company moved into glazing and were commonly contracted to do shopfronts around inner Melbourne. In the 1880s they commenced producing stained glass on a small scale. Their first big opportunity occurred in the 1890s when they were engaged to install Melbourne's St Paul's Cathedral's stained-glass windows. Their notoriety grew and as a result their stained glass studio flourished, particularly after the closure of their main competitor, Ferguson and Urie. They dominated the stained glass market in Melbourne in the early 20th Century, and many Australian glass artists of worked in their studio. Their work may be found in the Princess Theatre on Melbourne's Spring Street, in St John's Church in Toorak, and throughout churches in Melbourne. Brooks, Robinson and Company was taken over by Email Pty Ltd in 1963, and as a result they closed their stained glass studio.
a still shot from a video project i shot earlier this year
Một công ty của Campuchia vừa đưa ra thị trường loại xe ô tô Angkor EV 2013 chạy bằng điện với giá 5.000 USD làm nhiều người “sốc”. Trước đó, Ấn Độ còn đưa ra một loại xe còn “khủng” hơn với giá chỉ có 2.000 USD.
VN mình có thể làm được cái xe rẻ như vậy không? Tất nhiên là làm được. Người VN mình vẫn ngầm thỏa thuận với nhau rằng chúng ta thông minh nhất thế giới còn gì.
Vậy tại sao không có xe hơi siêu rẻ made in Vietnam nhỉ?
Vì mọi chuyện nó như thế này:
Một bác tên Nguyễn Văn Kinh ở TP. HCM đam mê cơ khí, công nghệ, bia, thịt chó và nhiều thứ khác bỗng một ngày đặt ra một câu hỏi rất hâm triết: “Tại sao chỉ có những người nhiều tiền mới được đi xe hơi?” và một câu hỏi còn hâm hơn nữa: “Có thể làm ra một chiếc xe hơi rẻ tiền đến cả một người nghèo cũng mua được hay không?”
Với tính chiến đấu rất cao, bác ấy lập một kế hoạch hoành tráng, thuê 5 kỹ sư mới ra trường của đại học bách khoa tạo nên cái xe 2.000 USD với đa số là linh kiện Tàu. Xe làm ra chạy ngon lành cành đào.
Vấn đề bắt đầu xuất hiện.
Một nhà báo nghe tin bác Nguyễn Văn Kinh làm ra chiếc xe siêu rẻ liền làm 4 kỳ liên tục về “Doanh nhân Kinh làm xe siêu rẻ”. Khổ nỗi loạt bài này rất ít nhắc đến các từ như “đam mê”, “liều lĩnh”, “dũng cảm”, “sáng tạo”,… mà lại có rất nhiều chi tiết như “ai cũng bảo bác ấy hâm”, “bạn bè bảo bác ấy dở hơi”, “Vợ bác ấy nói bác yêu xe hơn yêu vợ”,…
Sau đó là hàng trăm tờ báo khác lao vào xâu xé, khai thác bác Nguyễn Văn Kinh với các đề tài tương tự, có điều là với cường độ hâm hơn nhiều. Nhiều nhà báo còn khai thác đời tư của bác ấy một cách không cần thiết ví dụ như phát hiện ra bác ấy là “người dân tộc nhưng rất kinh”.
Vì bác ấy HÂM nên bác ấy vẫn đem xe ra đường thử nghiệm. Nhưng đúng ngày đó thì đùng một cái, cảnh sát giao thông tuyên bố: “Thằng cha Nguyễn Văn Kinh đó chạy thử trong sân nhà hắn thì được chứ mang xe ra đường mà chạy là chúng tôi bắt”.
Báo chí lại sôi sục ầm ầm: sao bắt, luật có cấm đâu, hâm à, dở hơi à, điên à? Cảnh sát GT trả lời: “Cái gì ra đường có nguy cơ gây nguy hiểm cho người dân là chúng tôi bắt”.
Nghe có lý không và có quen không? Nó cũng giống như giải thích của mấy bác quân đội khi cấm ông Hải ở Tây Ninh thử nghiệm máy bay trực thăng tự chế. Hay gần đây nhất là công an Thái Bình không cho ông Hòa thử nghiệm tàu ngầm vậy. Lý do rất nhân đạo, nhân văn và nhân dân: “Cái gì đưa xuống nước có thể nguy hiểm cho ngư dân là chúng tôi bắt”.
Ơ, hay nhỉ. Cái tàu ngầm này mà đưa ra biển nó cũng chỉ ra xa được 100m, lặn sâu 5-10m là cùng, chắc chẳng chết ai. Còn ngoài biển có những thứ nó ngang nhiên cắt cáp của tàu lớn, đâm vỡ tàu nhỏ, ăn cướp hải sản, bắt bớ đánh đập ngư dân sao các bác không bắt hết hốt hết đi?
Thôi quay trở về với cái xe siêu rẻ. Nó không được đưa ra thử nghiệm để sản xuất hàng loạt, tất nhiên rồi. Vì người ta luôn quan niệm làm ra cái xe hơi, cái máy bay, cái tàu ngầm phải là công việc của các bác giáo sư có mấy chục cái bằng hay của một cơ quan bí mật đó của nhà nước cơ, người dân sao làm nổi.
Thế là cấm! Đấy, thay vì dùng “sự phá hủy sáng tạo” của ông Schumpeter thì VN mình lại sáng tạo thành “phá hủy sự sáng tạo”.
Khi được hỏi có nghiên cứu thị trường trước khi sản xuất xe 4 bánh chạy bằng động cơ hay không thì Henry Ford nói rằng: “Nếu hỏi người tiêu dùng muốn gì họ sẽ nói muốn một con ngựa chạy nhanh hơn”. May mà khi ông Ford đem xe ra chạy thử, chẳng có ai cấm. Nếu nước Mỹ cũng có tư tưởng cấm đoán này thì hẳn rằng đến năm Ngọ này họ vẫn còn cưỡi ngựa.
Và sau này khi IBM thử nghiệm bộ xi xử lý, Microsoft bán hệ điều hành, Google đưa công cụ tìm kiếm mọi thứ mà người ta cố giấu hay Facebook cho người ta cơ hội thể hiện cảm xúc cá nhân cũng chẳng ai cấm cả.
Thay vì thịt con gà ngay khi mới lớn, người ta nuôi dưỡng, khuyến khích con gà đẻ trứng vàng. Còn ở VN thì đến con chim nó mới đập cánh vài cái đã bị bóp chết bởi những dọa nạt bản quyền với truy thu thuế.
Ở đâu mà người ta để cho sự sáng tạo được tự do, ở đó sẽ có những phát minh thay đổi thế giới.
Thôi thì “hãy cứ khát khao, hãy cứ dại khờ”
Well seeing as I missed the 400 Explore mark...here's the 500th instead..actually it's 510 with the 10 I manged to get with my other account...(That I am now unable to access)
There are actually 7 of these lil box montage thingies...that's 72 to a box multiplyed by 7...making 504!!!...If I knew how to add them all together in one large montage, I'd do it...sadly I know not what to do...:O((
I remember when I used to do one of these quite often, when getting into Explore was a rare occurance....Those were the days hey...oh to be shiny and new again..:))
Anyhoo...thanks to each and every one of you who has stuck by me over the almost 3 years that I have been on Flickr...where did the time go hey...:((
None of this would be possible without you all, so a squillions thanks from the heart of my bottom...lol..:))
Seriously...thanks everybody for stopping by and for all your comments, faves and awards, your all far to Kind..:))
1. Somewhere beyond the Sea......., 2. Bob, Bob, Bobbing along..., 3. Done Fish'n...., 4. For those in Peril on the sea..., 5. Hurry up and take my photo...there's fish'n to be done..., 6. What do you mean it's my turn to go fishing!!!, 7. A little T.L.C..., 8. Here, There be dragons....,
9. Come up and see me, make me smile.., 10. Now listen up son..., 11. flickr.com/photos/66164549@N00/3533146267/, 12. I think somebody needs anger management classes...., 13. Keeping your eye on the prize...., 14. On the Up...., 15. Meep, Meep........, 16. To Boldly Go......,
17. Swan song..., 18. Eyes to the right..., 19. Your paying me in bananas!!!, 20. Looking for the Silver lining..., 21. Under the weather...., 22. Anybody got a tissue???, 23. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Johnnnnnny!!!!..., 24. I'm the King of the Castle...,
25. Wake up!...it's a beautiful morning..., 26. flickr.com/photos/66164549@N00/3471373890/, 27. And did those feet in ancient time..., 28. Happy Earth Day..., 29. You make me feel brand new..., 30. Wild!....I was blinking furious!!!..., 31. Watching you....watching me..., 32. Happy Feathery Friday...,
33. Silent but deadly...., 34. It's the way I tell em..., 35. Up above the streets and houses.., 36. You said there would be eggs in here!!!, 37. The Sun's up there somewhere...., 38. I danced on a Friday when the sky turned black..., 39. There's gonna be eggs & bunnies you say...., 40. DOH!!!!...I knew I shouldn't have eaten that last nut...,
41. Smile like you mean it...., 42. All things bright and beautiful..., 43. flickr.com/photos/66164549@N00/3408948525/, 44. I've got my eye on you mister!!!, 45. I wanna tell you a story...., 46. I can't go when all these people are watching!!!..., 47. HUH!!!..I've got a what on my back???, 48. Swing your Rowlocks....,
49. All along the Watchtower..., 50. Feeling blue......, 51. The Sun goes down....(Living it Up)..., 52. Oh I do like to be besides the Seaside..., 53. On a Wing and A Prayer..., 54. Enjoying the Spring Sunshine..., 55. Trying to hide.., 56. Back in the red...,
57. Gull - iver's Travels......, 58. Happy Badger Wednesday....HBW..:O)), 59. She's a Fox...:O)), 60. flickr.com/photos/66164549@N00/3359617369/, 61. Beware the Ides of March....., 62. flickr.com/photos/66164549@N00/3352064892/, 63. Kneesey does it..., 64. Feeling Tyred...,
65. Up in Smoke....., 66. I'm not done yet...lol..., 67. Through a time portal....., 68. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud......, 69. Beware of the Dog!!!......, 70. The City in the clouds..., 71. Under the Boardwalk..., 72. A Walk in the Clouds.......
Created with fd's Flickr Toys.
Very shallow depth of field 'cityscape' courtesy of my new 5D. The clue to the location's in the title.
24 TH SEP 2021
the skin will come soon for schimtz cargo bull isothermo trailer by schumi
the first skin of the pack
Here is a tutorial that I created in Adobe Illustrator. In the tutorial we use some Illustrator basics, as well as some warping and other effects to create this retro looking badge/banner logo design
If you would like to learn how to make this retro badge you can head over to my blog: Create a clean retro badge in Adobe Illustrator
Created Sept 27 2011.
Fun with manila file folders, gesso, paint, spray inks, magazine cuttings and more.
Painting lines in the newly re-surfaced carpark at Hengistbury Head, Dorset, UK.
Kite Aerial Photograph
19 June 2012
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for further photos see comment below
Created this gift set for my dd's 2nd teacher. This is her teacher's first year & I thought she would like the apple stamps as her end-of-year "thank you" present. Made up another magnet with an empty ribbon spool. For the spool magnet, I enlarged the apple stamp & adhered to chipboard to make it a bit sturdier.
I have more detailed photos in my photostream.
TFL!
Materials used:
Stamps: HA CL142 Thank You Messages, CL272 All Occasion Messages, CL342 Everyday Sayings & LP125 Four Apples
Ink: StazOn Jet Black
Paper: Making Memories, Kraft notecard & White Cardstock (WalMart)
Buttons: unknown source
Clear box: www.clearbags.com/
Black chipboard: purchased at Reminisce