Six steps to becoming a good photographer.

Photography. Ah, what a terrific hobby. What a way to get to stress out, isn't it? Point and shoot, clickity clack, snap snap. It's difficult, though - you know, the photography deal. In light of its steep learning curve, I figured I'd give you all a few tips on how to improve your photography skills. As a *professional* afterall, who better to assist you in your quest to become the next Ansel Adams?

1. Camera quality is key.
Generally speaking, everyone in the world owns a digital camera as of April 29th, 2007. Even those who don't know what they're doing with them. Megapixels are like penis size, these days; the more, the better. Last year, I was suffering with my little ole Kodak 3.1 megapixel model. The photos were all fuzzy, colors were never quite right, and it was large and clunky to carry around. These days, I carry with me a 7.1 megapixel Olympus model. It's good, but still not porn star quality... err, porn photographer quality. As it stands, my camera is good for the price, but just doesn't stack up to the ones my [richer, more spoiled] friends have. Those little bastards have their parents drop $1,500 on them for a deliciously robust SLR from Canon or Nikon, complete with the super sturdy straps, 2GB memory cards, and built-in vibrator/massager.

What you want to try to do is make enough money to acquire one of these. One model I fancy is the Canon Digital Rebel. It's lightweight (compared to others in its family) and produces fine, crisp photos in gigantic resolutions. Do what it takes to get the two grand to get on of these babies. Throw yourself in front of a motorcyle, jump off a train, or survive a boating accident. Actually, any vehicle-related mishap should net you enough coin to purchase one of these things. And when you finally do get your over-complicated sex-machine that you have no idea of how to operate it, remember why you flew a plane with clipped wings into the ravine: to take photos that the ladies lust for.

2. Photoshop is a must, even better if free.
So, digital photography rules the world at large, now. And glam magazines air brush and contort their models into alien-like, absolutely unrecognizable creatures without guilt. So when it comes to modifying your photos, don't feel too bad about doing it. And all you need is a copy of Adobe Photoshop, which you could easily acquire illegally for free over the interwebs. Let me show you an example of how precious this little tool could be:

BEFORE


AFTER


Wow! What a difference!

3. Thick white borders prove professional.
For one reason or another, throwing your photo between a giant white border makes it look a lot more professional. I think it's because real photos and paintings have frames, and since it would be ridiculous to print out a digital picture, laminate it, then overpay for a frame for it, you're better off doing it in photoshop. But here is another "before/after" comparison, using the two pictures from before:

BEFORE


AFTER


Beautiful. We're almost there.

4. No border is complete without self-gratification.
We all like to think we're the best at what we do. Heck, that's why we do what we do. And we all want to get out voices out there, more so than that, so what we need to is put a hokey little copywrite and some faux-photography company moniker on the aforementioned white border, preferably at the bottom, making the piece seem like it's part of a catalogue or, ah, a company! Example:

BEFORE


AFTER


Now we're getting there.

5. Watermarks prevent thievery (optional).
As if us photographers could get any more pompous, we have to go and throw a watermark on our work to ensure ourselves that nobodies like you won't steal our goods! Usually when constructing a watermark, you want to make it as non-visible as possible. Y'know, so it looks like it's there when it really isn't supposed to be there? Something like that.

BEFORE


AFTER


S-U-C-C-E-S-S, that's the way we spell success!

6. You need the look (optional).
Photographers are amongst the most anti-social, yet, lusted after folk on the planet. I don't know how, nor why, but they just are. Part of it, I believe, stems from the fact that everybody wants to be photographed. I know I do, but I can do that by myself in a dimly lit room late at night. But it takes a special kind of man to photograph all the ladies. It takes a freak. You can't just be a normal guy with Old Navy pants and a regularly-fitting shirt. You can't listen to regular music or have a standard haircut or act naturally around your friends. You have to be as unique as your work and therefore, an apple in a field of oranges. You must be a freak (in a good way, though... people love freaks)!

So there you have it, people. Six tips to up your cred in the photography world. Turns out it doesn't take any talent to create art - it just takes enough money and the right look.

Today we are all hokey

The massacre at Blacksburg was an American tragedy. However, with tragedy comes exploitation, as seemingly every citizen of this country is trying to outdo one another in terms of how "sorry" they are for the victims of this horrific event. Let's get one thing clear right off the bat - I am sympathetic to the 32 who died and the many more who were injured. It is scary that such a thing can happen on a university campus and as a college student myself, it adds an entirely new shade of realism to it. It is abysmal and I feel terrible about it, but my feelings have limitations, as they should without exception.

Certain people, unfortunately, know no limits as we have a battle of who cares more on our hands. This nauseating one-upsmanship is not only offensive to me, but demeening to the people who actually lived through the terror on that awful day. I have no problem with people showing their support, saying their piece, and moving on. But to be frank, all of these ribbons with the Virginia Tech logo on them in people's Facebook profile pictures disgust me. The phrase "Today we are all Hokies" disgusts me. The acquisition of maroon and orange sweatshirts and ball caps and and other memorabilia digusts me.



The people all the sudden wearing their newly-purchased Virgina Tech merchandise and attending these candle-light vigils say they are "caring," but are they really? I call bullshit on the whole ordeal. These people do not care, they were not personally affected, and this probably means less to them than it does me. As humans, we have certain personality defects built-in upon birth that act up and act out in times of tragedy. We all want to be the one to bear the bad news. We all want to be the first to show support and grief. We all want that because it makes us look like better people, more caring people; people who have their priorities in order when, in actuality, it is the complete opposite.

Shortly after 9/11, every major corporation capitalized on a country's grief by producing some of the most ludicrous merchandise imaginable. Since we are human, we ate it up. Hats with "FDNY" on them could be seen on heads nationwide. Sales of "I [heart] NY" t-shirts were up hundred-fold. Little flag lapel pins and magnetic "never forget" ribbons for your car and an onslaught of American flags in a whole array of sizes were created for the sole purpose of being consumed by a capitalist society. It seemed like the person with the most flags on their car windows and most New York merchandise was automatically the most caring, sympathetic person.

And really, the story here is not at all different. The person in the most "Never forget Virginia Tech" groups on Facebook and the most Hokie merchandise sees themselves as the best American even though the tragedy more than likely has no personal effect on them whatsoever. Not only do they see themselves in that light, but they hope others do, as well. What better conversation starter than "Oh, you were at that vigil last night, too? Sad, isn't it?"

As cute as the notion of "never forgetting" is, you have to admit that a year from today, everyone not personally attached to the incident will have forgotten, moved on, and have handed down all their once-worn Hokie t-shirts to the nearest Red Cross. While those attending Virginia Tech will never forget this event, people at any other university will not care nor remember because caring is only pertinent the week or two immediately following tragedy. Let's face the cold reality here - since 9/11 was what, six years or so ago, the number of FDNY hats I've seen has gone down dramatically. I don't see any more flags on front lawns or "I love America" bumper stickers. Don't get me started on Columbine, either, that's so last century. I guess we only cared about that while it was newsworthy, while the survivors of that still have nightmares about that day. Virginia Tech is the hot topic, and until a tragedy of greater or equal stature comes along, it will remain as such.

The way this country moves from tragedy to tragedy is disgusting. Equally disgusting is how long we dwell on the negative and focus so little on the positive. Barack Obama becoming the first black President will be noteworthy for maybe a month after it happens. But these horrific days in our history are seemingly never forgotten nor forgiven. The United States as a whole has a huge problem with moving on, whether it be with common enemies or handling various crises.

So yeah, today I guess we're all hokies, key word being "today." Because you know in a year (or when another bad day comes along to replace it) we will go back to whatever we were doing and who we were before.

Los Hermanos Garcia

I like Nickelodeon. I don't know why, exactly, but I just do. Perhaps it is my lust for television programs featuring awkward, skewed visions of the traditional gameshow, or the oddball sitcom featuring whacky casts of characters. Whatever the reason seems to be, Nick has yet to disappoint me.

The slimerific channel has always been high on the cusp of differently-raced familial sitcoms. Kenan and Kel featured the antics of an obese Afro-American store clerk and his part-retarded, part-surfer pal and the family life that came with it. Another fun black comedy (that is, comedic program with a black cast and not a "am I wrong for laughing?"-type comedy film) was My Brother and Me, which introduced the world to this lovable pile of Goo.

Several years after the world adjusted to seeing some more, er, colorful characters on their screens, Nick sold us The Brothers Garcia, a look into the auspicious lives of an immigrant - excuse me, Hispanic, family. Capitalizing on census data showing that the Hispanic demographic is on the incline, we finally have a show that explains to us exactly why our next door neighbors cut their grass so frequently. And thank the Lord.

Though the focus of the program is on the trio of brothers, there is much more to this humble little nugget than meets the eye. A show about three Latino amigos wouldn't be too funny, would it? Nah, 'course not, which is why we are introduced to their family... so let's meet the Garcia clan, shall we?

Ray Garcia is the papa oso of the familia, and is the prototypical Nick father-figure: a smug, pompous-faced doofus. Seriously, watch any other Nick program and you'll pretty much see Ray. According to the official website, Ray is "a hardworking and kind dad, but he has strong principles," which is understandable, as every sentence in his description ends in violent exclamation. Ray loves his kids! Ray is not afraid to take out the belt! Ray likes gravy on his turkey, and if he doesn't get any he isn't afraid to make an example out of his whore wife!

Sonia Garcia is the family's milf-worthy madre who happens to run a hair-salon out of her home, and does so for financial profit. In a show already alienating stereotypes to a nauseating degree, our friends at Nick decided to give the parents "Mexican-people" careers. Ray cuts grass for a living, presumably. The eldest son is a luchadore. The daughter is a salsa dancer. And the youngest two lads lasso cattle and ride bulls on the weekends. Frankly, I'm surprised that Sonia only popped four little brats out of her vadge when their car can easily hold 10 or 12. C'mon, Latinos, think economically.

Lorena Garcia is, well, there's no other way around this - a dirty spic. She's the brat of the pack and will screw anyone and anyone over in order to get her way, and in her mother's good graces. She enjoys the Spaniard soap operas - y'know, the kind with the fat guys in diapers and eye patches? The kind I like to watch between classes. This bitch always gets in the brothers' way and it pisses me off, because I just want to see the three rape her or threw her down a flight of stairs or something. But sadly, that never happened.

Carlos Garcia is the greasy-haired eldest son of Ray and Sonia, and quite the little stud (emphasis on the STD). As the heartthrob of the program (every show needs one - for All That, it was Josh, for Drake & Josh it's Drake, for Rugrats it was Tommy) Carlos goes down the halls of his high escuela with his uncut penis hanging out of his pants in hopes to hook up with some of the youngest, tightest chicas the town has to offer. Ay yi yi! Carlos is characterized by his big lips and... well, I can't honestly get past those fucking things. It's as if Zach Braff knocked one out of the park with Angelina Jolie, and their love child got a year's worth of collagen shot into their face. El terrible!

George Garcia is the younger, somehow fatter and stupider version of Carlos Mencia. His hombres pester him about his weight problem (as well as his gay problem) which is really the only reason to watch the show. Apparently the producers of the show are trying to play the duality card on us with his weight issue because "this nine-year-old is a heavyweight in the brains department too." Subtle, Nick. If I were this actor, I'd probably be looking for the nearest bag to suffocate myself in right about now. I mean, it's bad enough he had to play the "queer Mexi" on a kid's TV show, but now you make light of his bulbous ass? Not cool, man.

Larry Garcia, at least according to the official website, is the youngest child at age 11. However, George's description lists him at 9 years of age, which es a huge discrepancy. Anyway, the littlest boy is narrated by fellow green carder John Leguizamo, best known for his role in... nothing. The twin of Lorena, he often gets into spats for sharing the same DNA and clothing. I feel quite sorry for the guy, because if I had to share the womb with that bean bag he calls a sister, I might have put a bullet in my brain. Back to the narration aspect of the show, though. Nick actually pulled a fast one on us by making this show take place in two different time periods, "now," and "the future." Listen to what they have to say on the website: "A more grown-up Larry narrates the show, looking back on the adventures he shared with the rest of the Garcia clan." Huh?

I like shows with this kind of dynamic. It gives hope to people like the immigrants down my block, because they now know that they too can make it in America. I mean, hey, the Garcias did it, why can't we? But it really makes me wonder, because I don't know where the folks at Nick can go from here. With the increase of African Americans in the United States, we've seen more programs featuring them in prodominant roles. With the rise of Latinos in America, we've seen the same. What's next? I have a couple ideas.


The al Hazeen Jihad Hour is a new program about a gang of festive, young terrorists who wage war against their local Afghan neighborhood, but all in good fun! It's bombs away when they try to martyr themselves for their creator, but the townspeople always seem to get the better of them as they stop their attack unwittingly. It's an hour of nappy beards, tongue-heavy warbles, and lunacy in The al Hazeen Jihad Hour, exclusively on Nickelodeon!


Another new program from Nick is Trail of Queers, a revolutionary and groundbreaking series about the lives of two homosexual Native Americans. But watch your backs, guys (literally!) as you never know when pesky neighbor Andrew Jackson will drop by for a visit. Every hour promises buffalo mercy kills, headhunting, riding a steer, attacks of covered wagons, scalping, sex inside a bear-skin teepee, and laughs by the boat load! Catch the first episode tonight at 9 on Teen Nick!


I know what you're asking yourself... what's better than an entire season of Koreans on your tube? Well, new from Nickelodeon is Koreans in Space, the first-ever, barrier breaking, stereotype shattering smash hit about six space-bound South Koreans. Watch as they float around in their rocket and shake their fists at North Korea - from many miles above Earth! Many questions arise in the first, 2 episode season of the program. Will Xi Chi and Xu Qui hit it off? Why did that jester Quan Sho Hi bring a poodle on board? And where will the crew poop? Check it out this week on Snick!

Man, those shows are way better than what Nick currently offers.

The Big Comfy Couch.

Clown families are a little different from ours. And baby clowns arrive in a very different manner! Loonette floated down under a dreamblanket parachute on the night of a Fool Moon after all the clowns had a Secret Circus. A Secret Circus is when clowns perform for each other and make each other laugh SO hard that bubbles of joy float up to the moon and a baby clown is born. Loonette landed in the loving arms of Granny Garbanzo and Auntie Macassar and Uncle Chester who have taken very good care of her.

I love children's television; I also, however, hold a certain disdain for clowns, as noted previously. So to have an afternoon nostalgia-trip about The Big Comfy Couch is particularly horrifying.

Of all the kids shows ever created, this one has by far the most ridiculous premise of them all. And yes, I say that with full knowledge shows like Zoobilee Zoo and Dudley the Dragon exist and continue to haunt a new era of America's youth. But what, you say, could be more terrifying than a part-retarded dragon or people as animals as people?

I haven't seen the show since I was a young lass of 10 or 11, yet even then such a ridiculous concept for a child's television program raised some eyebrows. I still hear the voice of my grandma asking me what the hell I was watching, and if I'd rather watch black-guy-on-Asian-virgin hardcore porn, as she was rather concerned for my mental state of mind.

The show follows a lady clown of ambiguous Latin origin who sings and jokes around with her band of equally clown-faced friends. You know this shit's serious when even her cat has a clown nose. It does come off a bit odd that all it takes to make a clown, seemingly, is a round red nose. With qualifications that broad, wouldn't any with a similar feature make the cut to clowndom? Like Rudolph, for example?

What made this show so intriguing was the fact that it had a hidden agenda. Every show they aired vaulted into song about how "fun" and/or "rewarding" searching your sofa could be, but I found that jamming my hand between the cushions just left me covered in a nauseating amount of dustmites. Or if you were like my family, it left you covered in your own blood, as beneath your ass lay several razor-sharp springs jutting out, just waiting for some hackneyed kids vehicle to tell you to leap in to their world of wonder palm-first.

The message in all of this? "You'll never know what you'll find beneath the Big Comfy Couch!" That was decidedly true, as I checked the contents of my living room furniture daily, finding everything from a nickel to the remote control for the TV to last month's edition of Fox magazine. Oh yes, the wonders of my big, comfy, cat fur-covered couch.

The most delightful experience I've taken from this masterwork is the Ten Second Tidy and the Clock Rug Stretch (not to be confused with the Clock Spider Stretch). During the former, our host Loonette would make her home all spic and span (no offense, quasi-Latina clown) in 10 seconds flat. On most days she would just eat like a pig and not clean up after herself, as if she needed an excuse to perform the Tidy. And the latter? Well, let's just leave it to the video.

Not only does this show promote the exposure to dangerous allergens, it teaches us that we are all more flexible than we've let on. However damning such a workout can be, it holds no candle to Loonette's doll pal Molly, who was only named such because of the assonance we've come to expect from this show.

As the late 80s and 90s were a time of incorporating anthropomorphic creatures into everyday afternoon programming, this show was no different. And thus, Molly the Dolly was born, a play-thing so creepy it really should be legal in less states than gay marriage. I don't know what Molly's deal is and, I am at least assuming she is a puppet with a hand up her hatch, but in the world of television you can't take any such chances. Molly shows us all that even dolls can be clowns, despite the fact that clowns are some of the most animated folk this side of that midget on Cops.

Finally now, let us run down the cast of characters that makes up The Big Comfy Couch:

Major Bedhead is a special needs gentleman who was allowed in Loonette's two-thirds ring circus assumingly by accident. He really adds nothing to the show other than looking like a cracked out version of the smirking guy in Norman Rockwell's "100 Years of Baseball" painting. And if you are a cracked out version of anything Rockwell has ever done, you have some pretty deep issues, friend.

Granny Garbonzo is overly stereotypically Italian and apparently widowed, as there is no "Grampy Garbonzo" to speak of. Her and her feline life partner Snicklefritz (which is far and away the most awkward yet amusing name I've ever seen for an animal) give the show a sense of stability that an autistic Central American girl her part-tard partner do not. Granny's a clown alright, and she's taking that red nose to the grave. Retirement is no option as she must carry on the Garbonzo name.

Not much is known about Uncle Chester besides the fact that he wears a really loud dress and keeps with the theme of multi-ethnicism. It strikes me as odd that this Latin girl is related to an old, senile Italian lady and a curiously African gentleman. Her family must have some real problems. Or, lest I forget, clown families are different! My mistake. Continue on your self-righteous political correctness trip, BCC.

Not much is known about Auntie Macassar, other than the fact that we can rightfully assume she is Asian and is married to Uncle Chester.

The Dustbunnies are a subtle jab at the lackadaisical experience you will have searching for things underneath your own couch. Them not actually being bunnies adds a whole new level of disappointment. This show can't get anything right.

Need further proof this show is a trainwreck of loveseat-sized proportions? Here are some additional video clips to scare, err, enlighten you. Yeah.

Clip 1 is the cast rapping. It is awful and disgraceful and makes me smile from ear to ear. Look at the kitty; he's wearing sunglasses. If that isn't awesome I don't know what it.

Clip 2 delves into Bedhead's secondary profession of psychology. And his thirdary profession of dancing like a jagoff.

Clip 3 brings this blog to a close with the [majority of] the opening theme song. Yahoo is, as always, years behind the curve, so the clip cuts at around 30 seconds.

So I truly hoped you enjoyed your trip through the world of The Big Comfy Couch. If what has been presented before you has given you nightmares, I have only done my job. And as my only current job is, in turn, giving people nightmares, I will thusly cry myself to sleep.