On today’s landing page for self-proclaimed “News website of the year”, news.com.au, you will find the above pictured link to a piece detailing what was an inexcusably massive cock-up on Apple’s behalf in relation to the release of the iPhone 4 in New Zealand.

What’s ironic is that in order to sell the story the website has decided to accompany it with a photo of Jermaine Clement, one half of the New Zealand comedy duo “Flight of the Conchords“, when in fact it has absolutely nothing to do with him nor does it mention Clement once.

It would seem that news.com.au has now, if not already, solidified its position as the online version of A Current Affair in my books. Congratulations.

In case you weren’t aware the newest season of AMC’s Mad Men hits American TVs this coming Sunday, the 25th of July. I have to admit that I was a late comer to the show having only started to watch the first season less than a month ago. Three weeks after watching my first episode I’d finished the three currently available seasons and was sitting on edge waiting for more!

And to celebrate the new season’s start the guys at Funny or Die have given us the second installment of “MA Men”, a Mad Men spoof based in Boston Massachusetts (MA).

It has been a fair while since I’ve done anything even slightly creative but this Easter long weekend gave me the perfect opportunity to explore an area of photography that I’ve always found so beautiful in smoke photography. A few google searches later and I had a vague idea of where I should start, I already had a couple of 1000W photo-lamps, black backdrop what I didn’t have that would no doubt have improved the shots some more was a remote flash, something I wasn’t about to drop a few hundred bucks on just for experimenting.

Three incense sticks and 100 shots later the above is a combination of my two favourite shots. I spent a good couple of hours just flicking through the unpolished shots picking out shapes and symbols in some sort of cloud-like game. If Elephants & Seahorses aren’t your game (and what a killer name for an English pub BTW), there are a couple more interesting shots below.

Don’t wear this @ AusPost

Yellow is not a good idea @ Ikea

Mistaken identity is not a concept that I’m unfamiliar with, from my school boy days of tireless “Mr Bean” taunts to my travels across the globe with an uncanny ability to be asked for directions in every city I visit it just seems to be one of those things I’ve become accustomed to. Today’s effort was without a doubt the most ludicrous to date, so much so that I just felt the need to share.

I had a few packages that required mailing, nothing particularly exciting there, in fact going to any post office within Melbourne’s CBD is like stepping in to a void where queues to tellers seem to grow longer rather than shorter and god forbid you visit one during your lunch hour because you’re bound to return to the office well beyond the hour you had to take in the first place! I’d done the right thing today, getting down to a new-to-me building as my working quarters has just relocated. It was much larger than my previous local, tellers at both ends of what seemed like an endless plateau of packaging wonders born down by eye piercing fluorescent light.

Collecting my required boxing materials I proceeded to one of the free “addressing areas” or as the casual observer may put it, “big black desk with pens on it” in the middle of the imaginary that is the Elizabeth St GPO. Two packages in to my five and an elderly gent beckons my attention wavering a scrawled shred of paper and looking clearly confused about where he was perhaps mistaking the brightness of lights for St. Peters gates.

“Excuse me, is this Bourke St?”
“No, this is Elizabeth St.” I replied.
“I’m trying to get to Little Collins St” he continued on, “Isn’t that it crossing over there?”

I felt sorry for the poor old guy he was practically entering cardiac arrest with confusion and being that this was, for once, the actual city I lived in where I was being asked for directions I didn’t mind helping him out.

“If you go back down this main street you’ll first cross Bourke Street and then the next one is Little Collins.” I explained.
Now as simple and clear as these instructions were there was a further five minute discussion detailing this sentence in perfect and repeated clarity until at some point the stars aligned themselves with Jupiter and a sense of calm broke out over his face with a sudden realisation that he didn’t have that far to go.

Satisfied with my good deed for the day I returned to my prior position behind the table picking up my pen to continue arduously inking addresses to cardboard, quickly flushing the warm glow that adorned me mere nano-seconds earlier.

“Excuse me, I just want to send…”

Looking up halfway through the postcode for Toowoomba (4350 by the way) across the black laminated surface of my desk stood not one, not two, but three complete strangers who had taken it upon themselves to queue for my rather inadequate postal services.

“I’m sorry, I…”
“I just want to send this to Sydney” she cut in, thrusting a yellowed envelope beneath my face.
“I’m sorry I don’t work here, I’m just trying to address some packages” I finally managed to say.
“Oh… I thought you did.” (well that’s kind of obvious really now isn’t it) “It’s that red shirt you’re wearing” she stated before trouncing off in disgust.
“You mean the red shirt with the giant logo looking like Colonel Sanders from KFC on it?” I thought to myself before looking up at the remaining pseudo queue with a comical shrugged look to which was returned, and I kid you not, a roll of the eyes and an audible “tsk”! I’m sorry Sir, the next time I’m trying to mail something I’ll be sure to make sure I’ve completed Australia Post’s induction course and can tend your enquiry in a more satisfactory manner next time. Moron.

I can’t blame them though, it’s like Christmas walking in to a post office and seeing no one in the queue I would’ve dove in like them too more than likely! The point is it was the shirt that did it, wearing a colour that was in some way reminiscent of the establishment’s uniform and that I should’ve been more aware of that as it’s not the first time I’ve had it happen, Ikea being the other major offender. Blue jeans and a yellow shirt in Ikea is either a recipe for constant annoyance or utter mayhem depending on your psychological stance. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been asked for directions/building advice/to lift something/measurements/and alike in Ikea, one day I think I’ll jump behind a register and start scanning things while yelling “beep” and proclaiming the line to be “cash only”.

The moral of the story boys and girls is that all of this was clearly my fault for choosing to wear the wrong thing in the wrong place, god forbid humanity to be aware of their surroundings. I will endeavour to ensure my clothing better contrasting those places of chance social interaction to not confuse you world. My bad.

It’s been over a month now since I had the unfortunate experience of breaking the middle finger on my left hand. Now, post surgery, sporting a Luke Skywalker styled hand with two metal rods pinning the joint firmly in to place I’m hopeful to regain full movement in the affected knuckle. Both of the pins actually stick out of my finger, one out the top with the other right through the tip and it’s that particular one that provides the basis for my story.

You see to protect the pin from any bumps or prods there is a small rubber ball on the end of it, similar to a tyre on the side of a boat to stop it banging against the dock. You can’t actually see this, nor the pins themselves, everything is hidden under a very attractive looking splint I’ve had moulded to my slender digit but it’s because of this rubber inertia dampener that I now find my finger to be a good two centimetres longer.

Graced with a new found reach you quickly learn just how subconsciously accustom you are to body’s limits. I can only personally liken it to a new pair of shoes that are slightly too large, you spend the first week or so bumping in to cupboards and having doors that you open clip them gently until your body starts to adjust for them without you even thinking about it. I’ve lost count of the amount of times having finished a meal my splint will be dripping in pasta sauce or most recently sweet chilli, eating a burger you tend to stab the guts out and lets not even mention knocking over liquids (thus far thankfully away from any expensive equipment – oh my poor couch!). The point is it takes some getting used to this body extension and that got me thinking.

Firstly it had me saying the word “extension” over and over in my head, which because of my lucid childhood arcade addiction I can not say without hearing the sound bite from Sega’s classic arcade racer “Daytona” playing over in my head… “Time ex-ten-sion!” Yes, I’m sad… this is not new information.

Secondly, and a little more on topic, being that I’m seeing a plastic surgeon to get all of this sorted out I’m constantly confronted with paraphernalia on what is obviously a plastic surgeon’s biggest drawcard in the current market, breast augmentation. Now if I’m having trouble dealing with an extra couple of centimetres on a finger how exactly do these women cope that wake up with a bust size that now doubles their previous waist circumference? I couldn’t imagine it! Forget about stubbing your toes on doors what about naked flames on gas-top stoves! I’m sure with time yes your body would adjust and things would become normal making considerations for your new found enhancements as I too have done over the past month or so but boy would it be a risky time. It certainly explains Robin Williams’ mishaps in Mrs. Doubtfire that’s for sure.

It’s not all doom and gloom though, the other day I found I could reach the remote control all the way on the opposite arm of the couch with my new found powers. Sure I can’t bend my finger but is that a fair pay off for my now super-hero like abilities? Stand back ma’am I’ll press that elevator button for you!! My kryptonite being of course anything requiring a firm two handed grip like brooms, vacuuming or housework in general riding a bike or holding a weapon.

Hmmm, ok, on second thought I’d be a pretty crap crime fighter.

In the few times that I’ve retold this story the consistent theme in each response has been along the lines of “Gee you’re accident prone aren’t you?” generally conveyed in a somewhat sarcastically rhetorical kind of way. I can’t blame them, in the past few years I’ve been hospital twice already and now with this latest endeavour I’m surgery bound once more.

The short version of events comes down to my knuckles trying to (unsuccessfully) catch an American football. Normally I’d allow the palms of my hands to look after such a task but on this particular occasion my brain decided to do things differently, you know, try and keep things fresh and all. I had, after all, been catching balls using the tried and true method for quite a few years now and it’s just plain dull.

It would seem however that my knuckles, or to be more specific the top knuckle of my left middle finger, wasn’t quite up to the challenge on this particular day and instead it felt the need to sustain an injury called “mallet finger” where the tendon is over extended and stretched causing a rather significant amount of pain.

My doctor the next day didn’t seem particular concerned with what had taken place, “A common injury among footballers I see every day” he told me, whilst at the same time observing my rather scrawny body seated opposite him and quietly quizzing himself as to why on Earth I would even put such a fragile frame in a position. I felt the need to reassure him that I was merely tossing the old pig-skin with a mate and not actually participating in an actual game. That would, of course, be suicide.

“Nothing to worry about” he said, “We’ll just take an x-ray to be sure but you’ve got some movement there, which is good, but you’ll be splint bound for about 8 weeks, less than 5% chance there’d be anything else going on”.
Oh joyous day, my day-job of programming was sure to suffer from the splinted attributes I was soon to inherit and no doubt it would of course ice my moonlighting career as the new wide receiver for the Green Bay Packers but that’s ok, they were knocked out of this years Superbowl that morning – most likely due to my absence mind you.

X-ray done and a few minutes waiting for the docs return I was met with what could only be described as “you’ll-never-frakin’-believe-it-but-you’re-in-that-5%-I-shouldn’t-have-mentioned-about-10-minutes-ago” look smacked across his gob. I started to smile, it just seemed funny waiting for him to try and figure out how to break the news to me that my finger was completely rooted. The smile evolved into a giggle and I apologised telling him that it was OK I was used to being in the medical minorities.

Turns out my tendon had done a little chop and wiggle from my bone, which was already expected, but a shard of bone had come loose, which again was kind of expected but as this shard was over 50% the size of the joint it was a little bigger than 8 weeks in a splint was going to fix and meant it was going to need some surgery to get things back on track.

“I’m going back to the tit doctor aren’t I?” I asked him.
“Um… sorry?”
“I had my wrist operated on a few years back by a plastic surgeon” I informed him, “His entire office was decorated with breast implants that he displayed with gusto & pride; ‘tit doctor’”.
“Ah, well yes, that’s probably where you’re headed” he confirmed.

Turns out my plastic surgeon is on a little extended leave post new years and I wont be seeing him any time soon meaning my day surgery attendance is beyond that by some time. At this rate I’ll do 8 weeks in the splint, have the surgery and then spend another month recovering (in a splint). I might make the Packers’ pre-season if I’m lucky! Haha.

As you can imagine having any body appendage retarded you begin to quickly realise just how often you rely on it. Sure it’s my non-dominant hand but I’m quickly broaching a new level of admiration for those of the world missing limbs or paralysed. In that spirit here’s a quick top 5 list of things I’ve found embarrassingly difficult to achieve only one finger down.

1. Squeezing toothpaste out of a tube while holding a toothbrush at the same time.
2. Putting deodorant on, it now involves resting the can on my bedside table and pushing the button with my thumb and spraying it al over my arm nowhere near my armpit.
3. Eating a meal that requires cutting meat, the “stab & devour” method of food consumption is now employed on a regular basis.
4. Opening a bottle of… well anything really, even though I use my right hand to twist the cap keeping a grip with my impaired left hand is like lifting a 10kg weight with my pinky finger only.
5. And then finally… making the bed. It took me 20 minutes to put on a fitted sheet yesterday, the whole process now involves me holding the sheet in my teeth whilst lifting the mattress with my good hand and hooking it underneath. It’s just plain awesome to watch in a rather sad yet unbelievably humour-able fashion.

All that said typing is something that I’ve quickly adapted to doing one finger down and once this new medical chapter comes to an end I’ll probably have to teach myself to use the current dead-weight-digit the other 9 are carrying on the keyboard!

Last weekend Melbourne played host to the Championship Trophy. The international men’s hockey tournament consisted of the world’s top six teams including Australia, Germany, & The Netherlands. To be honest I had no idea that it was even on until a friend from Adelaide rang to say he and his hockey club team mates were flying over for it and I managed to grab a ticket from them. I’m glad I went, I really miss playing and for the two days I was there I had a great time.

On the photography front I think I took nearly 200 hundred photos from the crowd, a lot of them useless but some of them pretty fun and catching a bit of action. The fruits of my labour are viewable in the slideshow below. Unfortunately taking photos like this at a sports event only makes me want to go out and buy some ridiculous zoom telephoto lens rather than using a stock standard 250mm lens that came with my DSLR.

Credit: Flickr user 'lolojajaja'

I had an disturbingly interesting experience on one of Melbourne’s fine public transport receptacles yesterday that I felt I just had to share will the world of internets out there.

Whilst travelling from point A to B there was a point that the seats next to me became occupied by a young mother and her two boys around the ages of 5 and 10. Nothing particularly fascinating about that I know but what was to come had me wondering if perhaps I’d just encountered a young Charles Manson.

Once seated the eldest of the two boys noticed an advertisement adorning the tram’s walls that contained a picture of one of Australia’s own Ringtail Possums.

“Look Mum, there’s a possum” stated the boy. Yet another statement confirming Douglas Adams’ theory of humanity merely stating the obvious for 90% of conversation.
“Yes, you’re right, do you like them?” enquired the mother.
“I want to kill it” replied the boy. Um… ok. Not the response I was expecting.
The mother, clearly embarrassed by the child and now noticing the majority of the tram glancing with judging eyes quickly responded with “But you can’t, they’re endangered”.
Slightly puzzled yet not deterred the boy retorted, “I don’t care if they’re ‘engaged’ I don’t like them, can I kill it?”

The conversation then went on with the mother doing her best to explain what “endangered” actually meant, another entertaining story in its own right, before the boy quickly lost interest and began jumping up and farting on his brother clearly disinterested in her efforts, the “death to all possum” revolution purged from thought.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I’m probably not reciting the conversation verbose but you have agree that this is hardly the conversation that instills faith in humanity’s new generation. Coming from a Gen-Y’er like myself that’s saying something!

I’ve been meaning to do this for a while now and last night with a spare hour or so I threw together a video of my photos from the 365 Day project I finished on flickr earlier this year.

You can see all the photos individual (if you wish) here: http://www.idontquiteknow.com/365-days/

Preface:This whole (strange) post came about through a conversation I’d had with a friend, Philippa, about how I don’t actually listen to lyrics combined with my sister’s love/hate relationship with Britney’s musical offerings. When I set out to write this post I had it was planned to be a somewhat satirical aloof take on Britney Spears’ *cough* masterpiece *cough* “Circus”. What it turned in to was a rather surreal story of world domination that would have you thinking I was tripping on acid when in actual fact it turned out my sugar levels were low and to be honest I don’t actually remember writing half of what I did now reading it back. Regardless here it is, a lyrical analysis of Britney Spears’ “Circus” (whilst low on sugar).

Before we begin, for those of you that have no idea what song it is that I’m talking about feel free to jump over to YouTube and check it out. Once you’re done vomiting come back and continue reading… Oh and don’t worry I’m not about to go through the whole song, it’s surprisingly not that insightful!!! I know, hard to believe!

There's only two types of people in the world
The ones that entertain and the ones that observe
Well baby, I'm a put-on-a-show kind of girl
Don't like the backseat, gotta be first

This is actually quite deep for Britney. She’s successfully divided the world’s 6.7 billion strong population into a distinct cross section clearly garnered from years of research with organizations such as the United Nations and Screen Actors Guild. Now that the world has been completely split in to two equally diverse categories it will calm down so that those that “observe” can watch those that “entertain” and we’ll all live in happy bliss. The only problem I can see in her theory of world peace is that just as she states “gotta be first” I fear a great deal of those living in the now secular society of “ones that entertain” will also feel the same way and quite quickly a civil feud may erupt, the next thing you know there’s hair, silicone & Prada bloodied and strewn across the streets of this new world. It’s actually quite apocalyptic for little old Brit’s.

I'm a like the ringleader, I call the shots
(Call the shots)
I'm like a firecracker I make it hot
When I put on a show

There’s not quite as much hidden in the next verse. Following on from the division of the world Britney has declared “Spears-Law” and emerged from the uprising as the new lord of “Princess-Land” as she’s named the US, which now holds the remaining population of “entertainers” post civil war. Britney rules over Princess-Land with fear tactics, promising that any of those who dare rise in opposition will feel the “firecracker” of justice and burn as she “make(s) it hot” for those that disobey. The rest of the world will watch in pale terror “When [she] puts on a show”

I feel the adrenaline moving through my veins
Spotlight on me and I'm ready to break
I'm like a performer, the dancefloor is my stage
Better be ready, hope that you feel the same

The pressures of ruling Princess-Land are beginning to take toll on poor Britney. Her rule is in jeopardy and with each adrenaline fueled strike she takes to topple the constant attempts to remove her as Queen she’s left alone, constantly in the spotlight of the new nation, “ready to break” under the pressure. Britney is no quitter though, she’s “like a performer”, not an *actual* performer by any means, that would require talent, and the stage is set for a final showdown between her 1984 drone-like followers and her once fellow entertainers, now plebeian subjects, to decide the fate of Princess-Land.

All eyes on me in the center of the ring just like a circus
When I crack that whip, everybody gon' trip just like a circus
Don't stand there watching me, follow me, show me what you can do
Everybody let go, we can make a dancefloor just like a circus

Leading up to the “Final War”, Britney and her cabinet begin a strategic marketing campaign to grab more attention & enlist the people to her and her cause. The “circus” is the unruly terrorist like attacks being employed by her enemy in Princess-Land against her, she stamps her authority over them and her subjects with a crack of “that whip” bringing everyone in to line once again, “Don’t stand there watching me, follow me”, enlisting them to take arms and fight for their ruler, “show me what you can do”.

There's only two types of guys out there
Ones that can hang with me and ones that are scared
So baby, I hope that you came prepared
I run a tight ship so beware

Britney’s efforts at enlisting the people have failed, they’ve turned against her and have been swept up by the underground movement spearheaded by Paris’ dog Tinker-bell, the now smartest living person in all of Princess-Land. Those closest to Britney are given the ultimatum to either come with her in a final stand or die, “There’s only two type of guys out there”. Oddly enough her original move and catalyst for all of this was dividing the world into two, she seems to not have learnt anything, once again dividing her remaining male followers, essentially handing down their death sentence either way.

[Repeated verses & chorus]

Now living underground in a burnt out Krispy Kreme store that fell through the ground in to the sewer system caused, ironically, by one of Britney’s bombings in the early days of the uprising, she begins to slip into a psychotic state still believing she is ruling what she had then labelled “Princess-Land” but is now the United States of Chihuahua with human life eradicated by Supreme Chancellor Tinker-Bell.

Let's go
Let me see what you can do
I'm runnin' this like-like-like a circus
Yeah, like a what? Like-like-like a circus

Having not eaten for over a week and the decaying bodies of her loyal few rotting around her Britney spends her remaining hours of life rocking; chanting that she’s still running the world albeit a “circus”, her mind completely gone and her childhood stuttering returned “like-like-like”. Her life begins to wain and the song’s continued, seemingly never-ending, verse repetition signifies her dying moments in the cold shell of the Krispy Kreme bunker grave she dug for herself. From the highest of highs to lowest of lows her Circus of rule comes to a sad end and Chancellor Tinker-Bell restores the nation to pre Princess-Land glory.

All hail Tinker-Bell!