Now where is Amolitor!?!?!

[Buckster]

I really wanted to capture the feel of the story. So I went for the black and white to transmit the heavy sadness. Added a heavy vignette for drama and framing, some tone mapping (don't mind that glow around my head, hehehe!), and voila

Now it needs a Dutch Angle to further convey psychological uneasiness.

 

[mishele]

I hope you don't mind, I had to edit your shot. It just didn't have quite the right feel to it.

 

[The_Traveler]

I was gone for three weeks and never a PM query.
Well, I guess that tells me where I am in the food chain.

 

[Majeed Badizadegan]

I hope you don't mind, I had to edit your shot. It just didn't have quite the right feel to it.

Nice shades. I look 10 times cooler.


(but 10 times not cool still = not cool).

 

[Majeed Badizadegan]

Well, I guess that tells me where I am in the food chain.

Higher than sharks.

Unless you're in the ocean.

 

[Overread]

It needs blood spatters on a corner - oh and burnt part of it needs to be burned or at least scorched!

 

[mishele]

Everyone is cooler when they have an avatar w/ sunglasses!!

 

[amolitor]

I'm..


here...

oh god the pounding the pounding the pounding help


help


help







he..

 

[dbvirago]

Who is John Galt?

 

[kathyt]

They are all getting manicures and pedicures at the local "massage" parlor! Derrel is still on the discussion of the feminine head tilt.

 

[runnah]

Everyone is cooler when they have an avatar w/ sunglasses!!

Agreed.

 

[dbvirago]

OK

 

[mishele]

^^^^Groovy!!

 

[Majeed Badizadegan]

They are all getting manicures and pedicures at the local "massage" parlor! Derrel is still on the discussion of the feminine head tilt.

Does my avatar count as feminine head tilt?

 

[Derrel]

It was about eleven o'clock at night, mid-March, with the sun long since gone down and the smell of heavy rain in the darkness of the suburbs. I was wearing some old,black Nike shorts, with a dark green T-shirt, and I remember that I had socks on, but no shoes. I was unshaven, rumpled, and still half-drunk, and I didn't think anybody knew, and nobody would care one way or another. I was everything an NHL fan typically is…stubble-faced, drunk, and dressed like a slob. I was scanning through my contact list on my iPhone to see if there was anybody who might happen to have the time to pick up a half-rack of beer that they could bring over and share with me. Or better yet, somebody who would bring over the half-rack, crack open and halfway drink one beer, then get a phone call and have to leave immediately.


The main hallway was cluttered with lighting and grip gear. Light stands, soft boxes, clamps,background crossbars, umbrellas in cardboard tubes, and a motley assortment of rolling hand-trucks and milk crates and soft-sided ballistic nylon lighting equipment cases were all piled up, blocking access to the clothes dryer and the washing machine. I looked at the TV. There was some hot-looking,mid-thirties-kinda' woman, half naked but wearing high heels,and she was tied to a chair in some dingy room, and was being interrogated by some scummy -looking character, an underworld thug she kept calling Ball-sack. I stood there, looking at the equipment cases, then the TV, and thought, "Oh, yeah, I saw that POS film like 15 years ago. Ball-sack leans in close to her,taunts her from right in her face, then she leans forward and then she bites his nose off,kicks him in the nuts, and he runs outta there like a little b*@tch,spewing blood and minus his nose."


I picked up the cable remote and punched the power button once, then tossed the remote onto the couch. "Ah, Ball-sack, you got wheat you deserved," I said to nobody. Disgusted with the quality of the films on HBO, I cursed the monthly cable bill and Comcast and the horse they rode in on. I walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. It was a white Frigidaire, and the bottom shelf had been filled with neat rows of brown beer bottles, all standing up,like little soldiers. But now, there was only one,single bottle left.


I reached in and grabbed the beer, and let the door to the fridge swing closed. I turned to my left, and walked back toward the living room. I started to twist open the beer cap. But the cap would not open. It just would NOT twist off! I twisted harder…then harder still. It was then that I felt the searing pain of a hard object smashing into the side of my head. "Must…hold..on..to.beer…must…not spill…beer…" I thought. By the time I felt my knees I hit the floor, I knew I was going to black out. "Ambushed in my own gottdamn place!" I thought, just before things went to black.


That was about six weeks ago. I don't have much memory of what happened in the minutes or hours after I hit the floor. I was out. Out cold. All I remember about the night was that there was some tired, worn-out old movie playing on the TV…a movie I could not stand. Shopworn dialogue, with some two-bit bad guy, and a feeble plot line. The movie's name escaped me, but I had seen it like three times before. It had a great title, I seem to remember that, but it was utter garbage, directed by a some young hack director who learned his craft shooting hair band videos back when MTV actually played videos. I remembered that the director's career stalled out when his model wife became famous and then left him. He ended up a broken man. He tried to kill himself, and when he shot himself in the head, his aim was so pathetic that he didn't die, but instead ended up a brain-dead vegetable in some nursing home. Ah, yes, the movie was named Muzzle Velocity!!!! That was the name of it! Man, it sucked!


The phone rang and vibrated on the glass-topped desk. I walked over, looked at the phone, and saw her name on the screen. I picked up the phone, and slid my right index finger over the slick glass top to answer the call. "Heya' cute-stuff, whatcha' up to tonight?" I said.


"Oh, I was thinking it had been a while since I'd seen you, and I was hoping that maybe you could, uh, you know…" her voice trailed off. I knew what she was a hinting at. I grabbed my keys, snatched my jacket off the end of the couch, and headed out the door.