Photoshop made easy

Recently I've become obsessed with Photoshop. Well, I say recently, but in reality I've been at this game a long time. The object of all my sadistic talents is, and has always been, my brother in arms, Mantastic (I'll use his most apt nickname just in case one of the millions of readers out there know your true identity); and I'll admit over the years I've hounded my friend tenaciously with countless movie poster parodies and speech bubble quips, and while I'd like to promise all of this will stop, we both know that's a promise I could never keep (and perhaps deep down you don't want me too?), but today I've turned the tables and worked over myself.

However, in creating this latest digital tomfoolery I hit the Photoshoppper's preverbal wall: the colour matching was all amiss, with no hope of rectifying the most obvious of cut 'n' paste jobs. After some great inner turmoil and debate, I humbled myself by calling in the aid of my greatest rival, and to be fair, the leader of the pack in Patrick Stewart related .gif animation, Millie, Photoshop queen of the South and lover of all things booze related. Swallowing my pride, I send the work I had done to the photo away, attached to a note simply querying:

"I can't seem to colour match the neckline, send help."

Many moons pass but eventually I receive a reply that simply reads:

"I fixed it...I fixed it good!!!"

Skeptical at first, I open the email wondering if she has indeed "fixed it good," yet before the file has even fully refreshed I know I've received a piece of Photoshop mastery and the bar has once again been lifted to an entirely new level. Here's the finished product.

Surely, this evens the score a little, Mantastic, surely...

Dramatization #001

The names and characters have been changed, but rest assured, dear reader, things like this happen all the time…

The glowing light of beauty draws near. “Oh, Holy Jesus, she’s coming. Quick, pretend like I’ve just said something profoundly funny.” The person I’m addressing, let’s call them David Caruso for arguments sake – that, and with David Caruso in your story the reader instinctively presumes there may be some sex on the way – turns in bemused interested to identify the audience of my little pantomime. “Are you crazy? Don’t look now, she’ll see you.” I quickly reprimand the leading man of Jade “– don’t look, just laugh.” With all the vim and vigor of a drunken Irishman on Saint Patrick’s Day, Caruso lets fly the most heartily of hearty laughs, the type of laugh that can only be transcribed in capital letters and explanation points. Dammit, I think to myself, too much ham and cheese Caruso, this time you’ve blown it, the loveliness can see right through you’re one dimensional acting, it’s over. Between the moment the beauty arrives and the first syllables of what is to be a perfect sentence leave her heavenly forged lips, a mere instant passes, but in the gah-gah-she-so-pretty mode I find myself in, the vision seems to stand there for eternity.

“What’s so funny?” She asks. The lyricism of her voice renders me speechless, while the blatant gawk of my eyes resembles that of an old man trapped in an elevator with an attractive catholic school girl inspecting her stockings for an elusive hole. Caruso, seeing my immobility, ascertains the role of life guard and comes to my rescue, “oh, nothing really.” Thanks Caruso you’re a real pal, and I take back the ham and cheese insult and praise his underappreciated work in Deep Cover and Kiss of Death. But my thanks are cut short as he continues, “nothing really, just perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” What! I squawk inside my mind. How dare you, Caruso, I'll see you dead for this. She’s mine, you hack, and you can’t have her.

“Common, guys, what’s so funny?” Time is running out. Grace Kelly wants an answer, she deserves an answer. She won’t judge you, just make something up. You’re funny, she’ll love you no matter what you say, baby. You can do it. Go for it.

No you can’t.

“Er…” I begin. The fear rapidly swells. Nothing’s coming. Think, dammit, think.

“Yeah, tell us, don’t hold out, tell us. You're a dead man, Caruso; Sipowicz can’t save you now. Am I sweating? Must say something before it’s too late. Be like Fonzie, be like Fonzie.

“I was just saying…”

Time freezes over and and in the same way a movie may have an ellipses of time to skip the details of a lengthy scene, the next few minutes contain several smiles and nods from the princess, and not to mention delicious, jealous ridden scowls from Caruso, while my dialogue flows effortlessly from my tongue into the enchanted heart of the lovely. It’s working. I throw a few well timed voices and staged hand gestures to thicken the tale for good measure.

I am the master storyteller.

I am Shakespeare.

I am Mozart.

Building to a crescendo the tale comes to a triumphant conclusion. All that is left is to take the beauty in my arms and discuss what the name of our first born shall be: I’ve always like Jeremy for a boy. Alanis for a girl.

Smiling, but seeming somewhat bemused, the lovely looks at me for further explanation.

Everything’s all right, I tell myself: you do have a slight accent on some words, perhaps she didn’t hear everything you said, especially during you’re hilarious Scottish overture.

“I don’t understand,” she says, removing the poisoned dagger from my heart.

“What part?” I enquire in waving hope.

“Well, all of it, really.”

Whilst I inaudibly curse myself for over indulging in a Shaun Connery impression that has always brought me nothing but pain and anguish, I see in my peripheral vision the perfect princess glance at her perfect silver watch which sits on her perfect wrist.

“Yeah…well, I’ve got to be leaving now, nice seeing you, though.” The unborn cries of Jeremy and Alanis curse my foolishness.

I’m so sorry, kids.

“Hey, I’m going too,” the interjection of the Judas, Caruso, “I can give you a lift if you like? I’ve got a great joke Jimmy Smits once told me” Not knowing the icy shards of rejection her assertion strikes down my spine the beauty replies, “sure.”

I am a terrible storyteller.

I am not Mozart.

I am Pauly Shore.

The moral of this story is simple: always have a remotely funny story on backup and if you know anyone like David Caruso kill them before they kill you.

Mark.

Together at last!

Wheel of Time: Book 13 - Path of Lost Souls

Like fantasy novels? Book your copy online now...


Mark.

People say I look like Han Solo

Well, here we are. Hooked-up and online. Connected, if you will, or, as my Grandfather would have it, on "the email," not that his thoughts have any validity anymore, at least not since he started wearing rubber pants and calling me Dad. I don't care how much he complains about the nurses stealing his money and touching him improperly, it's better than having him at home.

So, why a blog, I hear you asking. Well, what am I supposed to do: bought a modem, searched some porn, wrote some emails, searched some more porn, or, mo' porn, and what else is there left for me, huh? All the great loves already loved, all the great fights already fought, there's nothing left to do. But why don't you get out there into the world, do some good, fight some injustice, you say? Well, good point, well made, but, no, I'm lazy, have a bad back, and to tell you the truth, I do use "the email" to search for mo' porn from time to time and there's only so many hours in the day.

What can you expect from this blog? Well, In what I hope will be a ongoing series of my insight, worldly wisdom and thoughts, no less important than perhaps The Diary of Anne Frank or Napoleon’s War diaries, will no doubt be reduced to blabbering gibberish about the kids today, rubber pants and, if you're lucky, the odd dick-and-fart joke in less than a week; but nevertheless, welcome. I'll do my best to keep this thing as magnificent as is humanly possible, but more than likely you’ve gone already or are looking for vegetable related porn and ended up here. Not to worry, there’s something for everybody at the Mark’s VegetableGarden .

NOTE: There may not be anything for anyone at George's Vegetable Garden; the proprietors of blogger.com are investigating whether or not to allow this fool to take up precious online journal space, or to instead, publish the work of a wild monkey hitting keys at random - which would arguably produce the same standard of work.

Anyway, important factors to note:

1. Am slowly working my through Rolling Stones’ 100 Greatest Albums of all time and will update as I get deeper into the fold. So far, nothing has touched Brian Wilson and the lads' Pet Sounds, an album every bit as good as it's made out to be.

2. Quantum Leap is by far the greatest science fiction television ever to air and I’ll fight any nerd who dares say otherwise; pending, of course, they are extremely strong female Trekkies and/or Stargate fans – those fellers fight dirty.

3. If it came down it to it, I would choose Labyrinth over The Dark Crystal everytime.

4. Certain people would have you believe that I look nothing like Han Solo, but rather, something akin to this man:

I hate you Mitchell.

but more on this comparison later...

5. Zeppelin do indeed rule.

Anyway, I'm already bored...will post righteous thoughts on the Beach Boys' Ways of Righteousness (commonly known as Pet Sounds) soon. Until then, always remember:

"Leasing may be the fast track to an appearance of affluence, but equity will keep you warm at night."

Mark.