View allAll Photos Tagged Single
I think that I'm correct in saying that these UTIC bodied buses were built around Leyland's B21 running units, and handsome buses they were too though their large wheels gave them an unusual edge. As built, they were powered by the TL11 engine, though some were to be re-powered by Volvo engines. When seen here, they were being operated by TUF (Transportes Urbanus Famalicao) or Famailcao Corporation in British speak. They'd come to this operator as replacements for some un-loved French built single deckers, having being new to the Guimaraes Municipal fleet where they themselves had been replaced with newer tackle. The whole transfer had been facilitated by nature of Arriva's newly acquired stake in both operations.
single family house / jswd architekten / köln rodenkirchen, germany
© 2012 thomas lewandovski - all rights reserved. www.lewandovski.com
Photo : Lão Trư
Model : Đùi Gà Bé Nhỏ
Makeup : Minh Trang
Location : Phim trường Maze of Space
LH: 0904498944
VW Single Cab, feature shoot for VW Camper & Commercial Magazine.
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Website | www.ericarnoldphotography.com
This single girl was made in October of 2010. I straight line wonky quilted it up and down and side to side. I actually traced out the circles from the pattern to hand stitch it and after an hour of getting nowhere, I lost patience. I'm thinking my current single girl will be hand quilted but we'll see.
Please, observe this photo on full screen
Canon 400D + Tamron 28-75 /2.8
Session: 06.04.2008 r.
Copyright © 2008 Grzesiek "NOMAD"
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Two different single use cameras with promotion for the Dutch fairy tale theme park "Efteling" . Made in France and Hungary , with expiration dates 2000 and 2002 .
On a sunny summer noon at a Peloponnese field, a single tree is sitting there proud, as if its waiting for company...
Paper: Kodak Portralure G 1976 (warmtone enlarging paper similar to Ektalure G)
Developer: Ansco 108 1:0 for 2 min (high contrast developer)
Toner: Moersch MT5 (Polysulfide) followed by Ilford Selenium
This is a new interpretation of this rose picture I took in 2007. The negative was underexposed and quite thin so I mixed up some Ansco 108, a high contrast developer. Portralue's contrast supposedly is grade 1-3 with the use of filters (I haven't tried this).
I have started using Moersch's MT4 polysulfide toner for the first time. It's replacing Agfa's Virdon that I briefly experimented with (and later gave up on:). The saturation becomes much greater when followed by a strong selenium bath and becomes warmer.
Something a little different. The Dunbar lifeboat escorts the fishing vessel, "Incentive", with an over heated engine through the TINY harbour entrance. This was a wickedly cold day in early March 2006. The temperature was 1 degree, there was snow everywhere - at this stage Aberdeen was cut off by drifts, and it was blowing a good NE 6-7 all the way from the arctic...bbbrrrrrr!! The engine on this fishing boat had overheated and she had been left drifting just to the south of this in big seas. The lifeboat towed her back to here but this entrance is too narrow for a safe tow so the fishing boat fired up her engine for a quick blast through. The engine was so dicey that they reconnected the tow immediately on passing through to safely dock her.
Three more images in the comments.
(PS this lifeboat has since had an unhappy ending when she broke her mooring here. www.rnli.org.uk/rnli_near_you/news/news_detail?articleid=...
DBS class 67 no. 67016 pulls away from Poppleton station on 1st august 2015, the driver having received the single line token, heading 1Z50, a UK Railtours charter from Kings Cross to Harrogate, via York.
Yea she left me ....now a month or two ago ....lets say I was too involved with someone else
Where is she now ?...dunno we don't have much contact .
I know she does have someone else now
Dusk at the Humber Bridge. Taken at the end of a 'Computer to Capture' workshop with the the hugely talented Doug Chinnery. His workshops are great value and very rewarding.
This is from the Down town Raleigh, series we did last week, I just love how these turned out.
Tab, did the make up...
If you came here by yourself tonight,
Because he wouldn't pick up the phone.
He was suppose to bring you here tonight,
Couldn't find him so you came alone.
It don't matter cause you're here now,
And the music you're enjoying,
So for the next couple minutes,
Baby I'm a be your boyfriend.
Pretty mama if you're single,
Single, you don't gotta be alone tonight,
So while the DJ plays this single,
Single, just pretend that I'm your man tonight.
Model: Jenina Versoza
NE-YO "SINGLE"
Single, male, and Indian? It’s almost a disease
The guard outside the Gordon House Hotel in Colaba hated my face. I don’t think he’d even seen it, though. The way most of us casually blank out eyes of a beggar knocking on our tinted car windows, this guard had first looked away, then scowled, then mumbled something for a bit—still ignoring the four of us entirely, given that we were even unworthy of his inattention. And then he finally muttered ‘nahin’, or something to the effect.
We were all men, single (so, obviously molesters and rapists), standing outside the main gate of his posh discotheque, dressed in our Saturday night best. It appeared we could afford his hospitality, but he didn’t seem interested. Dogs and stags weren’t allowed, but then, suddenly, we (the dogs) were.
Galloping mindlessly across Mumbai’s backpacking district, we had left behind our only legitimate passports to status and nightlife—the four women friends with us. They caught up with us eventually and hence the guard welcomed us in. I don’t think he said sorry. He needn’t have. I didn’t blame him. Egos are too trivial to get in the way of a precious evening.
However, the gent outside Tito’s, with eight people inside on a Monday night, in the dead of the monsoon season, turned out to be a whole lot ruder. I heard him whisper under his breath some terrible things about the anatomy of our mothers and sisters. Not the sorts to pick a brawl still, we endured the humiliation, gently explained that we, in fact, did have women friends at the bar and then quietly left. This is common sufferance in Delhi. But we were in Goa, for God’s sake.
Being a man, with other men, in India’s semi-urban nocturnal jungle is to remain a gross, sometimes disgraced social outcaste, experiencing a strange tropical ailment—single-itis, for lack of a better name. These untouchables of nightlife don’t deserve their dance, with their drink, even if they could pay twice for the same simple pleasures.
You know something’s warped when watering holes that serve loud hard retro rock for music—still no one’s idea of a romantic date, by the way — remain officially open to couples only. Save if you are a regular. So they let me into Mumbai’s good old Ghetto the other night. I heaved a sigh of relief. We were five men, one woman. You can’t form political coalitions with right permutations each time you go out. The said ratio didn’t work at the next lounge, like it won’t at most clubs. Tough luck, I guess. And, no, there isn’t such a thing as ‘gay couples’. So, smart try.
It’s the sort of sexual discrimination few will take seriously and fewer still will care about. No one I know will fight against it. Suspicions are hard to erase. Some terrorists give all men a bad name. This is true for the average, Indian non-molester man, who makes for the vast majority. He stopped hitting on Indian women at some point. She instantly assumed him to be sleazy anyway. She had probably liked looking at him. He had seemed okay. He had enjoyed giving her the attention. She had thought that was fine as well. Their eyes had just met at the bar. But I know what they were both suffering from.
The Indian girl is hit by the silly ‘slut complex’. She won’t make the semblance of a first move—which should truly be her right—for fear of being judged as the loose one. The Indian guy is similarly down with the ‘creep syndrome’. He can’t be seen as one of those, you know, “one of those”. He has a reputation to protect.
Given such poor practice with making conversations with the unknown of the opposite gender, his skills get considerably worse with time. When he does try his luck now, once in a while, the possible openers get odder still: “You smell really nice . . .” Eww. She looks away. He goes back to his drink.
The times you must hang out with other men, just men, is when you’re at a quasi-gay joint celebrating old boys’ reunion of a frustrated boarding school. There are mostly men around at party places, which allow men to be by themselves. The topic of conversation is the woman, still.
Species single, male, and Indian, could consider themselves getting officially quarantined. It would help their cause. Female companionship is a mirage. Male company gets boring. Cloaking this lack of opportunity into a moral virtue, most prefer to get married instead. Their parents help them hook up, finally. Someone should. It’s hard to hold out beyond the late twenties. Arranged marriage isn’t always a matter of social conservatism or personal choice. It is often an urban necessity. Family feels proud. Segregation suits the status quo. Society approves. As does the petty politician, whether he’s the sicko who hassles lovers at public parks, or the old man in the gram panchayat. Unmarried love is fatal to his constituency. Inter-religious or inter-caste family can negate his existence. The conforming institution, the saviour, lives on.
Sooner or later, being single gets even tougher when everyone else around is already married. And there, those platonic female passports to an acceptable nightlife are gone as well. It may be fair to suggest that you can be happily single, in much the same way as you can be happily married . . . both being empirically impossible. To me the occasional woes of single men, however, seem diametrically opposite to those of the single women I meet. Except when they discuss the opposite sex, which is when they talk the same language.
Both on separate tables insist that a man or woman who is straight, smart, attractive, intelligent, interesting, funny, and, yet, available is an extinct specimen fit to hang at museums. Maybe because the two tables have never merged with each other’s. They’ve never really met. After school and college, where will they? At work? That’s where many do, it appears—unless you’re the supposedly shy sort, who only slimily stares at objects of desire, over the cubicle, under the staircase, when not stalking on Facebook.
New to sharing workspace with women, the traditional Indian man can barely get himself to open his hesitant mouth before a frothy female form. What comes out, when he does part his lips, bears promise of a sexual harassment case. He’s better off tongue-tied, quietly fantasizing. Dishonesty in sexual expression is probably better for the civilised world.
The less shady ones—fat, fugly, tall, talkative, short, sloppy—get to demonstrate their actual worth at work. This is a level playing eld. Women get attracted to the relatively
smart. The guy has something to prove. Bosses should be glad. Late hours aren’t a problem. Attendance goes up. Company’s productivity rises.
Sure, an office intern can shake up the White House and shock America. The gorgeous dimwit secretary can make the stern corporate CEO dance on his knees. Attraction demands no prior appointment. This may be unfair on the nerdy, pimply man who must work harder to command the same attention from his male superiors. But nature tends to balance this out in the long run.
That rookie biz-school grad, when he turns bald and old and if he is on top of his boardroom game, will be considered sexually attractive still. This isn’t necessarily true for the dumb hot intern in his office twenty years later. While he’s younger, freer, funnier, he stands a fair chance as well. Call centres and the movie industry merely get a bad name. All Indian offices with reasonable sex ratios, being 1:10, if you peer harder I reckon, will look like rocking dating sites, spiced up with secret romances, rebounds, heartburns, and heartbreaks. Pay closer attention to the HR department.
Mixing hormones with business may be a terrible idea, I know, but what to do? Where else to go? At a house party full of drunks? Where the inevitable cock-blocking and penis- fencing match is about to begin between twenty single men over the only woman who decided to stay back until late? Maybe. Or maybe not.
At a discotheque? Yes. That would be an ideal place for the lonely soul, seeking a happy ending to a day—a night of casual, naughty nirvana. It’s a large, dimly lit psychedelic dome singularly structured around eyeing men and women, since there’s precious little they can see of each other, through their beer goggles, under a shiny disco-ball. Loud music takes away the awkward discomforts of acquaintanceship. Burden of conversation safely lies in the lyrics of the songs. Akon sings ‘I wanna love you’, Snoop Dogg adds ‘I wanna fuck you’. Bodies move to booty calls. Eyes meet. The point’s made. Nobody need ask your place or mine?. Maybe that’s there in the song lyrics as well. Deal’s struck. Booze is expensive. Night’s young. So are you.
But then if you’re single, male, and around others with the same affliction, you were just dreaming right now. They won’t allow you into a nightclub. It’s for couples only. Despite weightier measures of time, the two people entering have already met, and so have already dated, drank, danced, and done all old-world things invented to break the ice since the Internet. Then, perhaps, they’re not single anymore. Social segregation is a vicious circle. Having a girlfriend exponentially increases your chances of finding another than being single ever does.
For a year or so I once co-ran an anonymous daily relationship column in an English daily in Mumbai. It was called Dear Diana, named after this well-travelled woman who could solve your daily problems. I was Diana. It was a popular read. Most of those writing in, I realised, were only checking if we would print their crazy queries, none of which were serious. They were almost all jigsaw puzzles about cousins sleeping with their daughters, who were in turn making love with both the dad and the aunt. The only genuine questions would inevitably be from a lost male soul: “I like this girl. What do I do?” Become her friend, I’d say. “How?” Get to know her friends first, and take it slowly from there, I guess. “How?” You know what, buddy? I don’t know.
A veteran tri-sexual acquaintance (the sort who serially tries for sex as his natural right) tells me he’s had it now. It is a hard life, unless you’re a rock star, or in the Indian context, a Bollywood hero who plays a rock star, I suppose. The friend says he’d rather start a political front for single men. There’d be enough support for his cause, he jokes. I don’t agree.
Nobody would openly join a group that automatically is presumed to comprise a bunch of cash-strapped, unstable varieties who walk around being single because, it is thought, they ought to be. No woman could stand the son of a gun, anyway. Even women are attracted more towards men who are already hitched. There’s mystique in the unattainable. Singles’ nights inevitably fail. Recent female responses to dating apps like Tinder suggest to me that it is mainly full of married freakoids or sexual ends. Neither help much in restoring the rep of the Indian single man anyway. “Deserters, all these people,” the ‘tri-sexual’ frowns at my analysis. You’d be the first one looking to desert your own group, I tell him. He agrees.
The Game is a celebrated Bible for single men that scientifically tutors an ‘average frustrated chump’ (AFC) to become a ‘pick-up artist’ (PUA) giving out few quick steps towards attracting pretty things at bars, cafés, malls, and discotheques. The bestseller studies various ‘seduction communities’ in the US. During the course of writing his experiences, author Neil Strauss, self- admittedly an AFC, attends workshops conducted by experts in serious ‘seduction communities’ before he gets anointed the world’s no. 1 PUA.
The single Indian man would be in awe of such a champion. Read the book and you’d be easily able to tell why the same methods could never be applied in his country. This isn’t to say I haven’t seen a desi dude with a ‘wing man’ at a local bar, ‘peacocking’ (dressing outrageously), ‘negging’ (sounding rude, but giving backhanded compliments), ‘kinoing’ (making harmless physical contact) . . . Yeah, I have basically seen him make a plum ass of himself in public. The desi girl is mostly unimpressed. She probably also knows he’s read the book.
The Game is yet another American dream. Women have widely panned the bestseller in the West for its overt male chauvinism. The premise is entirely sexist, yes. But sex-guru Strauss makes a significant point out there that should please the average female reader—that there are no ugly women, only lazy ones.
Everybody loves the single woman. The world donates her its affection, attention, drinks, dinner, coffee, couch, conversations, cupcakes, tags, hash-tags, friend requests, re- tweets, roses on Rose Day, proposals on Propose Day, self- respect on Valentine’s Day . . . She gifts them hope. Nobody loves a single man; not even the single man himself, and least of all the bouncer outside the club.
Este canal es uno de lo mas visitados, construido en el siglo XV, rodea la ciudad y se utilizo como defensa de la ciudad.
Si alguna vez teneis la posibilidad de visitar Amsterdam, no dejeis de pasear en barca o andando por el.
The 1st single bride photoshoot album
Model: Mai Hoàng B
Assistant: Đức Anh CG
Stylist: Tuấn Gato
Taken by Toon
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