November 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
Food photography. Such a wank, am I right?
Look at this salad. It looks okay. It’s neatly plated, has shape, balance and dimension. The flatware is white bone china. There’s a suggestion of company in the background, because who cooks for one? The generously-sized bowl reflects the action. But it’s not a money shot. Why?
The leaves on the right hand side have too much caesar dressing. They look dipped and limp. Maybe there should be some utensils, so you can pick it right up and get stuck in? But wait: OH NOES! There’s a bread tie on the counter.
Let’s look closer. Here’s another picture:
The leaves are coated, glossy, even. But not overly so! You can still see their veins, their spines, erect with freshness and moisture. You know, when you need a break from the yolk, the anchovy, the raw garlic, the lemon, you will be able to find a bit of virgin leaf. Look at that crouton. It’s only an hour old! The bread is so close you can see the the sponginess, the strands of gluten, the rub of the oil. You can tell by its golden edge it’s going to be crunchy outside, chewy within. Look at the cheese! It’s so thinly shaved it’s almost transparent. You can see its ruffled edges, its salty petals. It’s sitting in that roasted tomato like confetti in a cup.
And I wasn’t even trying, I just dumped it out on the plate. Imagine what a team of food stylists would come up with.
The first photo shows you food on a plate. It’s a strip show. The second photo takes you in close and sharp. That’s a lap dance.
You can still tell you’re not dining alone but you no longer feel like you have to share. It’s practically in your mouth already.
November 15, 2011 § Leave a comment
I woke up with cartoons in my head. Odd, since I CAN NOT DRAW.
But here they are. I’m offloading them. They are for sale.
This one is meant to show a huge Aussie crowd tearfully farewelling Kim Kardashian, while a lone sniffer dog heads over to inspect Obama and his smelly, nuclear briefcase. Kim looks rather good.
Here, the Australian Quarantine and Inspection Service gets to work. The second frame is meant to be an Obama thought bubble or something. He’s wondering if he should declare his APEC beach towel and the charred remains of Greece and Italy.
And here is Quentin Bryce getting ready for yet another meet-and-greet. She looks rather fetching in a slip. I think her private secretary is meant to be jabbing a finger at the checklist. It’s an anatomical disaster. Oh well.
Don’t give up your day job etc.
November 13, 2011 § Leave a comment
So we have this doll house.
Me: We need to shift this doll house.
Richard: Okay. PRICE CRASH ON DOLL HOUSE! ONE DAY ONLY!
This is typical.
Me: No, I mean we should move it. At night.
Richard: What are we, cat burglars? Why do we have to move it under cover of darkness?
Me: Because if we move it at night the kids probably won’t even notice it’s gone, on account of the fact that they apparently do not know it exists. Because they haven’t played with it for AGES despite begging for a doll house for months. But if we move it during the daytime the kids will be all (folded arms, narrowed eyes) “Where do you think you’re taking the doll house, motherfuckers?”
Richard: They will not say “motherfuckers”. They do not even know that word.
Well, this is awkward.
Me: But I want my lounge room back. The doll house is in the middle of the lounge room!
Richard: It is not in the middle of the lounge room. It is up against the wall.
Me: You know, I’ve always thought of that wall as a fireplace, but whatever, expert.
Richard: It’s equivalent to a wall. It’s a wall substitute.
Me: Oh, so just because our lounge room has three doors and two couches and a television and a coffee table instead of walls, the fireplace gets ‘wall’ status?
Richard: Yes, because we haven’t used the fireplace in five years.
Me: And those were cold, cold years, I’ll have you know. I had to huddle under stuffed animals.
Richard: Those are whippets. Look, they’re over there, lying on our couch.
Me: Wishing there was a fire.
He pretends to ignore this.
Richard: Also, we have central heating. And air conditioning, which will come in handy since it is nearly Summer.
Me: But when Winter comes, I might want to sit by the fire. Just think how romantic that would be. And then I’d be all “Motherfucker! There’s a doll house in front of the fire place.”
Richard: Then you won’t have to move it very far to burn it.
November 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
Mi scusi, Mister Giro, but I’ve written you a poem, and
If it’s not too much trouble, would you call the boss and show him?
You’ll remember, several weeks ago, you ran a game on Twitter.
My prize has not arrived yet and I promise I’m not bitter, BUT
I put some entries in it and one made the chosen ten, so:
Please send me a maglia and I’ll never ask again.
My tweet, voted a winner, will be on the leader’s shirt!
The others didn’t make it but I promise I’m not hurt.
Pink’s my favourite colour. You should see my drawer of socks!
Just hang on for a second, while I check the letter box.
No shirt. But I’ll continue, for I like “getting my verse on”.
Maybe it will help if I express it in third person:
“Leonie wrote a poem for the maglia comp on Twitter.
She isn’t very large, so send a SMALL and it should fit her.”
You’ll gather I’m excited (listen up for one more minute),
A jersey worn by Contador! Assuming he is in it.
Though, perhaps the maglia rosa will be worn by Andy Schleck.
Climbing fast (while looking backwards) on a light and shiny Trek.
Though, really, I’d be happy if an Aussie won the Giro.
I’m sure you’ve heard of Evans, the Antipodean hero.
Look, I understand you wouldn’t want a slowpoke in this tee,
But I’m not planning to wear it. I will FRAME it! You will see!
Now I know you’re on a budget, but there’s really nothing to it.
(I could send some “compensation” through. Would twenty dollars do it?)
I’m not the type to cause a scene or awkward controversy.
I’m sure you’re printing hundreds, though, so please: SEND ME A JERSEY.
UPDATE: I won some hearts (apparently!) and a jersey is on its way.