These images are from a three-part contest titled "Bad Medicine." I kind of get chills down my spine when I see these. They make my lips hurt. Only if these were real... It may encourage people not to lie if everytime one lied they would have to have their lips sewn shut

What is?
Worth 1000 is a community of digital artists created by Aviary, a New York company that ‘is on a mission to make creation accessible to artists of all genres, from graphic design to audio editing’. In this community you can participate in all kinds of contests. Although there are contests for multimedia and all kinds of texts (poetry, limericks, personal blogs), the Photoshop contests are the most represented. If you have a registered account, you can join the contests by adding your work and you can rank others. 
 
At this moment, about 500.000 people (Aviary calls them artists) have an account and submit the content of Worth1000 or vote on the work of others. The owners of Worth1000 determine the themes and the rules of the contests. Themes can be anything, from filmposters mash-ups to creating new animals, from modernising classical paintings to inventing new sports.
 
 
Web 2.0?
According to Tim O’Reilly, web 2.0 applications use the network as a platform. Users can easily add content on a website. Worth 1000 gives the users that platform. In fact, that’s the aim of the entire community: let the users become producers of art and let them share their work with others on an on-line platform. The contests are the most famous parts of Worth 1000, but there are forums, a chat part and Photoshop tutorials made by the the users as well. By clicking on the media you’r encouraged to send an email to someone including the link to the site and to Plime, a 2.0 news website.
 
For participating on Worth1000 an account is necessary. But not many things have to be filled in, just basic information like name, gender and birth day. You must be 18+ or your legal guardions must give permission, probably because of some sexual content on the site. You’re 18-? Just lie about your birthday. You don’t need an avatar and Worth1000 isn’t interested in your hobbies, your scholar, your favourite artist, your brand underwear, etcetera. If you like, you can choose for birthday wishes.
 
Copyright
Because there are so many uploads, it’s interesting to see what the policy about copyright is:
‘We try to conduct our business in a manner that limits the instances where a user sells merchandise that may infringe the intellectual property rights of others. However, because thousands of users upload through an automated service, we cannot assure that the media may not, from time to time, infringe such rights.
Accordingly, we encourage intellectual property rights owners to contact us if they believe that their rights have been infringed by the upload of a user’s media using our service. If you let us know that your rights are being infringed by one of our users we will (in our discretion) require that the media be removed from the site, if the user continues to infringe your rights (or infringes the rights of others) terminate the user’s access to our services.’
 
So there’s no control on the media that are uploaded. You can find many examples of protected brands in the galleries. Here and here you see images with probably protected brands in it. Or here, you see brand parodies. The company behind Worth1000 apparantly don’t mind using illegaly brands and will only remove images when the right owners contact them. Ironacly, every media placed on Worth1000 is copyright protected. Worth1000 ‘will solely and exclusively own all intellectual property’. There’s no Creative Commons License, or something like that, on the content.

For this blog entry, I wanted to copy-paste one of the images into this text, but this seems to be impossible. So you can’t copy the content by this way.
 
Voluntarily labour
Although the website itself isn’t very flashy, the content shows great examples of post modernity with many mash-ups, parodies and humour.  With Photoshop it’s easy to manipulate existing images. You can shrink Pamela Anderson’s boobs, let an owl bark and make Fidel Castro a member of ZZ Top. Worth1000 gives an opportunity to show you creations to the world. It’s just a pity that Aviary makes money of your work and owns it when you have posted it, although there are some contests where it’s possible to win prizes. For visitors that only view Worth1000 it’s most of al fun.

I got drawn! I'm so excited *blush* Over on Worth1000 they just had a "Draw a Worthian" competition, where any of the illustrators/artists could choose a member of the of the community and, of course, draw them. So when the competition opened I moseyed on over to see who had been chosen and I couldn't believe it when I saw myself amongst the ranks! Not wearing my ubiquitous daggy old black jumper and leather jacket, but in an adorable period costume but still with one of my trademark pendants. The fantabulously talented Ms. ImagiCreatrix has done a wonderful job and so many thank-yous go out to her for choosing me - I really feel like part of Worth now and not just some kid in the arse-end of the world, writing stories nobody gets.

And speaking of stories nobody gets . . . I mean, things over at Worth, I've had two more stories finished for voting this week, both in Head-to-Head competitions. The first featured in a really fun contest where the brief was to write a story revolving around this image by omegamista40bc. I found this a really great exercise and it was such a nice change to write something innocent and child-like for a change even though that's not my usual schtick.

The Unexpected Friend

The second was to centre around a letter or email that was important to the characters. Admittedly mine was a four-am-doozy, written in the only time I had spare so it's not great, but I don't think it's so bad either.

Two Words

But I should probably think about going to bed . . . I've got my end-of-term concert on tomorrow at Underbelly and I really need my sleep. To be honest with you, I'm shitting myself over the Bollywood dance we're doing as I really don't feel as confident as I do with belly dancing, but ehn, it'll be fun. At least that's what I'm telling myself ;-)

This image is from a website called Worth1000.com. I love to browse through this site in my spare time. You should try it sometime. You may get a couple of kicks, maybe some “awws”, “ewws,” or “I have no idea what that is but I like it’s.” This sight contains photoshop artwork (which is what I enjoy browsing), photography, and multimedia artwork from average people like you and me. The website holds photoshop contests based upon category, and it is judged by the people who browse through. This contest was all about knots. The rules were simple–make something (people, animals, architecture, whatever) into a knot. I enjoy this one. It is very true. I hate interstates, and especially interchanges. A lot of times it can feel like you’re driving through a knot. This highway looks quite distorted. I feel like I could just grab it and yank it tight… then it would be in complete knot.

source:  http://www.worth1000.com/emailthis.asp?entry=484489

artist: “Junnior”

I had two nice surprises today, both of which caused me to do a little hoppy-dance of joy around the small space of carpet in my room.

Firstly, I got an audition for Short and Sweet. Doesn't mean I'll get a part, but just getting a foot in the door is exciting for me; besides, I need to go for more auditions just for the practice. I figure I'll do the same monologue again (one of Jo's speeches from Low Level Panic by Clare McIntyre), I just hope it's not one every pudgy girl of my age group chooses. Two minutes just seems so short to show off, doesn't it?

And then, only about an hour after I got the email about the audition, I won my first Head-to-Head on Worth! These are mini-competitions where 2 to 8 players go against each other in a competition of their choosing. This was a bit of a twist on the "In-a, With-a, While-a" with one person picking the genre, the next person picked the time period, the next the animal protagonist, and the last player chose the hit-list of banned things to write about. So we had a tragedy, set in the Age of Enlightenment, featuring a peacock protagonist, but everything had to be indoors, characters could only shout, and there could be no mention of feathers.

These were tough constraints, and ones that were a stretch for me. For most of the voting period I was coming second - no surprise, I didn't think this was my finest work especially since I tried to match the writing style with that of the era (and hoped that no one picked I was bullshitting my way into knowing anything authoritative). This morning I woke up and low and behold - I was coming first, and by the time voting finished I had ended up with my first score over 8! Hoppy-dance time!

You can read my story for yourselves here: My Lady's Peahen

(Also, I've finished posting my Thirty Days of Text entries - I failed to make the full thirty days, but I still found it a valuable exercise. There's a whole range of different genres and styles, so take a look here.)

"Oh my God, Shanay! I got your text this morning, what's wrong?" squealed one of the girls, a blonde with heavy eye-make up and baby pink lipgloss.

"You are not going to believe this," Shanay cried as she slumped herself down on a hamburger-shaped stool, her ample frame spilling over the sides. "My Mum is sending me to fuckin' Fat Camp!"

"No way! You are fully hot, you don't need to go Fat Camp. Your mum's a total Nazi!" said another one of her friends as they all cooed and consoled her at a volume above OH&S standards.

"I'm so pissed off. Like, who does she think she is? And, like, I have no choice, I have to go. It's like fully legal and everything."

"But, like, how can she do that? Is it like boot camp or something? 'cause I hear Cameron Diaz does that and look how hot she is . . ."

"Nah, Cameron Diaz is like old!" retorted the blonde. "She's like a fuckin' has-been now. So, yeah, don't do boot camp. It sucks."

"Yeah, nah, it's not like boot camp. It's fuckin' worse. It's like, I've got to go away for weeks and they have all this fuckin' dietary stuff and trainers and they weigh you and all this stuff. And I'm like, fuck that, can't I just get liposuction or something if you want me thin? but Mum's already signed me up. She's a fuckin' bitch. Hate her."

"But you're not, you know, that fat . . ." cooed a brunette, her hair meticulously piled into a haphazard, teased ponytail. 

"Fuckin' thanks, Beck!" spat Shanay.

"Yeah, but you know what I mean. You're not, like, obese."

"Mum says I am. Like, she even weighed me and everything and I'm like 108kgs. And Mum's like freaking out saying I'm gunna die young and get diabetes and childhood obesity and stuff and I'm like, fuckin' thanks Mum . . ."

"Your Mum's a bitch," said the blonde, "and you're, like, heaps tall so it's not that bad. You, like, even out. In proportion."

"But that's not the point, Mum thinks I'm fat so she signed me up. They start filming in two weeks time . . ."

The word "filming" brought the rest of the group into a paroxysms of excitement. "Oh my fuckin' god, you're going to be on TV! You're gunna be, like, fully famous!"

"Um, hello . . . I'm gunna be on TV as the fat kid, you know, on Fat Camp. That's like, you know, totally embarrassing!"

"Yeah, but by the end they'll make you fully hot and give you like a make-over and stuff and they always have, like, you know, really hot fitness trainers and stuff . . ."

"But that's not the point! Like, for weeks, I have to give up pizza and chocolate and pies and Maccas and coffee and stuff. It's gunna be hell and so embarrassing. Like, I fully don't want to do it . . ."

"You should, like, sneak lollies and stuff in, so when everyone's losing weight you gain weight, just to stick it up 'em," stated the blonde, but Shanay shot her a "not amused" stare in response. "C'mon, I'm just saying, you know, beat 'em at their own game!"

"Or, like, have liposuction and a face-lift and stuff before then so when they start filming you'll be totally hot and way skinnier than all the others and they'll have to send you away," suggested the brunette, Beck.

"Nah, like anyone's going to give a thirteen year old lipo! But, yeah, I gotta do it. Like, Mum gets a stack of money for making me go and we, like, need it. But, you know, she says that's not why she's making me do this, she's like, "oh, it's going to add years to your life, and you'll be so much happier and healthier and blah blah blah" but, you know, I reckon she just wants the money and get her own face on TV 'cause she lost so much weight going to the gym and stuff she just wants to show off. She says she cares but, you know, I just don't believe her . . . God, do you guys have any smokes? I'm dying for a ciggie right now . . ." The girls got up on cue, grabbing their bags and fixing their hair, make up and clothing. "Lemme just get a smoothie first . . ."

Two hours ago, they were driving across the rocky hills on their way home, following bush tracks they knew well over their thirty years of fossicking in the area. This trip they hadn’t found so much as a gypsum rose, but being together in the heat and the dirt and the scrub, sharing each other’s company, a bottle of wine and a sleeping bag in the evening always brought them closer. They’d been almost desperate to get away this week: they had planned to go last month but heavy storms and flooding in the region trapped them in the suburbs.

Driving home, they decided to take some tracks they hadn’t been down for a while. Their trusty old Landcruiser took the steep inclines and the jutting rocks well as Helen drove and Wayne read the maps. As they drove over the crest of a steep ridge, Helen eased the vehicle over the edge but neither of them could have predicted the loose rock just over the ridge. Helen tried to keep in control but the Landcruiser slipped and lunged abruptly to the right, tipping and rolling down the sharp incline. Helen and Wayne held tightly to the hand grips, their shoulders around their ears trying to protect their heads from the equipment flying through the car as they tumbled violently down the hillside. Wayne closed his eyes, hoping the old four-wheel drive was strong enough to protect them but as they came to a thumping halt sideways, Helen’s screams had turned from fright to agony. If it wasn’t for his seatbelt, he would have fallen on top of her: pausing in shock for a second that felt like an hour, Wayne pushed his door upwards and ignoring the pain in his chest and his knees, he clambered up out of the vehicle. Helen was trapped, and blood was pooling around her right ear from where her window had smashed and her head hit the rocks below.

Getting her out wasn’t easy. Carefully he smashed the windscreen, brushing the glass away and lying their sleeping bag over the edge to protect them from the shards; inside he cut her seatbelt away, and he managed to manoeuvre her out while she still had strength left. Propping her against the sideways bonnet of the Landcruiser, Wayne went back inside for the first aide kit and the mobile phone.

The kit was direly neglected, and the best he could do was bandage her head where the gash seeped deep red under her greying hair. The mobile was dented but working, although with no signal and only one bar left of battery life. Dialling 112, the phone rang once before bleeping in his ear and dying. Taking a deep breath in and reassuring Helen despite his fears, he climbed back in.

The UHF was dead, but he knew he had a little handheld CB somewhere. Rummaging around the driver’s seat, little shards of windscreen glass and Helen’s blood embedding themselves in his t-shirt, he came across the chunky little radio. Switching it on, it crackled to life.

“It’s going to be ok, love,” he called as Helen sat whimpering against the bonnet, “help’s coming soon, I promise . . .”

Swimming through the air, Hassan-Smith made his way to the intercom on the sleeping chamber wall. If something was wrong, Davinson would know about it. Hassan-Smith paged once, waited, paged twice, but there was no response. Something was wrong. Pushing his way through the chambers of the craft, he made his way through to the equipment room; the view through the porthole showing the black vastness of space, lit with the crystal glistening of stars and the red orb of Mars.

The equipment room showed nothing wrong: atmospheric levels, cabin pressure, food and water levels, waste disposal, everything was in order. From what he could see on the displays in front of him, there had been no breech to the hull and no opening of any of the hatches – wherever Davinson was, he had to be within the ship.

Hassan-Smith searched every chamber and corridor of the spacecraft; in his rational mind he believed it logical that Davinson had perhaps collapsed somewhere, victim to a previously unforeseen medical condition. But a greater sense of unease occupied him, and the longer he looked without finding Davinson, the more unsettled he became and the more convinced he was that he was entirely alone.

Making his way back to the equipment room, Hassan-Smith loaded the monitor screen for Davinson. Lines snaked across the screen, showing his heart beat, blood pressure and analysis, respiratory rate, level of brain activity. Wherever Davinson was, he was still alive and conscious. Swimming over to the communications centre, Hassan-Smith grabbed the microphone:

“Control, can you read me? Over.”

Static filled the line as he waited with a racing pulse for the response; his heart sinking, he counted off the seconds before relief finally came: “This is Control, go ahead Hassan-Smith. Over.”

“Control, I’ve got a problem. Col. Davinson is missing. Did anything happen in the past seven hours while I was asleep? Over.”

“Nothing unusual to report.” There was another pause before the static broke again. “What do you mean Davinson’s missing? Over.”

“He’s not here. I’ve searched the craft but I cannot find him. How are his readouts? Over.”

“All normal at this end. He can’t be missing, there’s no anomaly in our data and everything is fine. He’s got to be there. Over”

“What location do you currently have him in? Over.”

“He’s in the equipment room with you. Over.” Despite the white-sterile coldness in the craft, Hassan-Smith could feel the sweat dripping within his suit.

“Copy that. Can you see him on the cameras? Over.” A high pitched whine pierced through the static as the cameras mounted in the room swivelled to catch every aspect, giving the Control Room back on Earth a full view.

Hassan-Smith could barely breathe as he waited for the voice to reply through the white noise on the speakers; he knew there could be only two answers to his question, and he dreaded the implication hidden in both.

It’s three in the afternoon. In the conference room a PowerPoint slide shows detailed histology results, CT scans and photographs as various specialists ponder, heavy-browed, on the implications of what they have just been told . . .

Rewind three hours . . . the pathologist steps out of the infections room of the city morgue as the body of a twenty-three year old woman is wheeled back to the freezer, completely sealed two body bags and a contamination container. Ashen-faced, he steps out of his biohazard suit and turns to the decontamination centre set up in the homicide room . . .

Rewind four hours . . . a family waits, bleary-eyed and sleep deprived, behind the glass wall as their daughter, their granddaughter, their sister and their niece, dies quietly alone, quarantined in the contagious diseases ward. Unable to hold her hand as she passes, they hold each other as her vital signs fail and she slips away . . .

Rewind five hours . . . a girl knocks on her flatmate’s bedroom door, her arms clinging tightly around body as she struggles to remain conscious. The pain is so bad she has already vomited on the carpet and despite feeling cold she is sweating all over. She knocks again ad her flatmate comes to the door, half-awake, wanting to know what’s wrong. “Take me to the hospital, please . . .”

Rewind six hours . . . a girl arrives home from a Saturday spent at the beach. With her boyfriend she went swimming and paddled in the rock pools; they snoozed and snuggled on beach towels in the hot sun; they ate ice cream and went home where they made love before walking down the street to get fish and chips. She arrived home and greeted her flatmate, watched television with her for half an hour before going to bed, uncharacteristically exhausted . . .

She knew something was very wrong.

Soon, her body was leaking at every pressure point, a thin, watery red stream of blood and bodily fluids seeping from her as if her essence was draining away. Mary removed her dripping slippers and her undergarments, but her light summer dress was causing her to leak where it rested on her shoulder. She removed that too.

Mary didn't want to call her son: she already suspected he thought she was going senile and didn't trust him to take her seriously. But then, she didn't feel like she could call for an ambulance either - who would believe that her life was dripping away through her skin? Besides, she had lived eighty-two years through good times and bad - very bad - and she was not going to let life seep away from her now without a fight. At least, not like this. Her body was against her, but she still had her wits and her will. Naked and defiant, her blue veins showing through her translucent-white skin that hung in folds around her once-lean body, she came up with a plan and went to the kitchen for the necessary supplies . . . 

************

When the police found her, Mary's body lay desiccated and naked on the bathroom floor. All around her stood flasks, ice cream containers and buckets filled with red-tinged, now rancid, watery fluid: Mary had tried to collect her leaking self, desperately trying collect every drop as her essence started to pour away. If she was going to die, Mary thought to herself as she stood in the buckets and pressed the mouth of a thermos to her palm, she was not going to let any part of her get away.

"Yes! Yes! My creation - it lives!" shouted Dr. Gianni before his cackles turned to cries of frustration as the creature on the table started to spit and spark, a small tongue of flame inching its way down the electrical cord before fizzing at the socket. The power cut out and he was plunged into darkness. "Igor! IGOR!! Come here this instance!"

"Lance! I've told you, never call me Igor again!" snapped a woman's voice in the darkness as footsteps descended the stairs. 

"Sorry, Wendy," muttered Dr. Gianni. "The power's gone out again."

"I can see that, dear," Wendy retorted, lighting a candle on her way down. "So what did you do this time, you old fool?" 

"I was in the process of reanimating the flesh of reptilian beasts long since past, and my creation shuddered to life! It shuddered and for the briefest second it lived, Igor! It lived! But alas, tonight it was not meant to be . . ."

"Cut the dramatics, Lance, and don't call me Igor!" Wendy waved the candle around the basement until she came across a box. "'Introduction to Animatronics: DIY Tyrannosaurus kit'. Lance! Where did you get this? Oh God, don't tell me eBay. You better not tell me you got it from eBay . . . "

"eBay," Dr. Gianni confirmed, before expertly ducking his wife's backhand while the candle hissed and rocked in her other hand.

"You idiot!" she read the side of the box. "'Product of Bhutan'? What the hell . . . ? Do they even have electricity in Bhutan? Or factories? Someone's ripped you off right-royally! Did you even check the specs on this thing? No wonder you've shorted the power again!"

"But I bought the adapter they recommended!"

"And fat lot of good it did you! You're just lining some con-artist's pockets, you great dolt! Get upstairs this instance and change that fuse or we'll have to go without supper. I'll be damned if I'm cooking in the dark!"

"Yes, Igor," muttered Dr. Gianni as he stomped up the stairs.

"LANCE!"

But now, Matt's life was over, as far as he was concerned. He'd gone from a teenage hero to disgraced-ex-footballer cripple in one career-killing flash; but it hadn't been about the football for some time. He was enjoying the perks way too much when he hit that tree. And he'd only just turned 20 that week. But the worst part? He couldn't look his Mum in the eye anymore. The woman who raised him, washed his socks and jocks after training in on the school's dry, dusty oval, who took time off from work to drive him over to Mildura or Horsham or Adelaide or Melbourne for workshops and football camps . . . he was meant to make her so proud and now she was back to washing him and dressing him like a baby again.

Matt wheeled himself down the newly-built ramp at his Mum's house and down to the park by the creek; he couldn't stand the atmosphere in the house anymore. It was still early, and the air was slightly moist with the dawn's dew but with the veiled threat of more heat in the afternoon. But it was spring and there were still patches of green around. Matt wished he could take his shoes off and feel the wet grass around his toes once more but he wheeled on, ignoring the stares and comments as the town's discredited golden boy passed through the main street.

Wheeling down to the artificial lake, Matt stopped and let his mind go blank, trying not to think of anything but failing. If only he could get a run up down that little incline and let himself run straight into the lake . . . it was deep enough . . . Looking over his shoulder to find a good spot to start his fatal last run, he spotted a girl, about his own age, sitting atop the picnic tables, reading a book. He didn't recognise her, but he noticed she didn't recognise him either. As he maneuvered himself around to her, she looked up and he noticed she really didn't know him at all.

"Hey, how's it going?" Matt asked, and the girl put her book down. She was short but slender, sort of plain and daggy, but in a sort of elegant city-daggy way, like what he imagined a librarian to look like. But to her, he was a nobody and she was just what he needed right then.

"Yeah, alright," she put her book down and swivelled to face him.

"You're not from 'round here, right? Like, I don't recognise you," he said, wondering why all of a sudden he felt so embarrassed. 

But instead of being offended she laughed, "why, is that a problem?"

"Hell no! Just don't see new faces 'round, you know."

"I'm just visiting with my family. My uncle lives here and he hasn't been so well so we came up to see him. We leave on Sunday."

"Oh, is that Gerry? Your uncle? Yeah, he's been bad a while," Matt suddenly realised what he was saying. "Oh, shit, sorry, I didn't mean it that way . . ."

She laughed again. "No, it's ok. Like, Uncle Gerry's my Dad's step-brother and they barely sort of know each other but you know how it is with family things."

"Yeah, know what ya mean . . . So, what'chya reading?"

"Just an art book for uni," she turned the cover to show him but it all meant nothing. "Got to write an essay for when I get back." She rolled her eyes like essay writing was a chore.

"Cool, is it hard work?" he asked, but she only giggled again.

"Sometimes, but I'm only second year!"

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I just dunno 'cause I never had to write an essay or whatever 'cause I never finished school . . ."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her face falling quickly. "Was that 'cause of your . . . "

"My accident?" He shook his head. "You really don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?"

"You never heard of Matt Gerning?"

"Um, no? Sorry . . ."

"Where are you from?"

"Melbourne."

"Melbourne?! And you never watch the news or read the papers or go to the footy or anything?"

"Sorry, it's not really my thing!" she spluttered, and Matt realised he was probably being a bit aggressive.

He laughed to try to calm her down, "Nah, it's cool, it's cool . . . I'm kinda glad, really."

They both fell into an awkward silence, neither knowing what to say next. Matt wheeled himself back and forth in a tiny swaying motion. "So . . . are you an artist, then?"

"Me? No, I just study it. I'm doing a double major in history and art history."

"So, like, where does that lead you?"

"I'm hoping to get into a gallery, become a curator or something. It's a bit of a pipe dream but what else can you do but try, really?"

"Nah, I reckon you should fully go for it. Like, I don't know nothing 'bout art but if that's what you want to do then you should fully do it. I've never been to a gallery or nothin' but you've never been to the footy so it doesn't matter. You just gotta be true to your path, know what I'm sayin'?"

She cocked her head, and he could feel her eyes examining him, every inch of him. "You know, you don't have to know anything about art to like art. You get wankers who try to tell you something is great, but if you look at a picture, or a painting, or a photo or street art or whatever, and something inside you just goes 'click!', then that's what art's all about. You could have the intelligence of a peanut or be the smartest guy in the world, but unless you feel that click then it's not really worth it no matter what people say. You could look at the Mona Lisa or whatever and feel nothing or you could look at some really twisted portrait some 16 year old's sprayed onto the side of a factory and be totally moved." She sighed and paused. "Sorry, I'm just crapping on about art here, boring you to death. I get like that . . ."

"Nah, it's cool. I get what you mean, though. It's like sometimes everything that's going on kinda . . . I dunno . . . comes together and you feel it. Like everything in your life is going right and you feel like you're doing the right thing. But then you lose that feeling and everything turns to shit . . . It's like what you were saying with art - if you don't feel that but you pretend you do, then you're damaging yourself and others, if that makes sense."

She smiled, and Matt felt his chest tighten a little. "Yeah, that's totally it!" she said, before being cut off by the tinny, techno bleating of Matt's moble.

"Yeah, hi Mum. Nah, I'm in the park. Oh, alright. Nah, it's cool, I can get back on my own. Yeah, no worries, see ya Mum," he flipped the phone closed and sighed. "Hey, look, I really liked talkin' to ya, sounds funny but you've really cheered me up 'cause I was feelin' pretty shitty before. Wanna catch up before you head back to Melbourne?" To his surprise, she blushed but agreed. He flipped his phone open again, "Hey, what's your number and I'll give you a call . . ."

This was a ritual of ours: washing day, laundromat late night Tuesdays with the papers and magazines spread on the old green laminate tables. We pile our washing up in the machines, turn all the lights off and pull the chairs towards the windows, catching the street lights and the citrus shades of the traffic lights and read the papers in as many different accents, styles and emotions we could muster over the rhythmic chugging of the outdated washers and temperamental dryers. 

I can't remember why we turn the lights off, but it never works when they're on. For some reason neither of us can get in the mood and our accents and feelings sound dull and forced. So the lights stay off and we stay in character. And the papers are always the best - the more dry the article, the better we read. We never bring our lines to the laundromat. If either of us are working on a script, it stays at home. Laundromat time is fun time (a slogan that now adorns the banner above the bathroom door).

And it works. Last week I got my first voice-over gig since I graduated. It's just for a radio ad but I'm so excited. And Lou, my housemate, he's had a call-back for a rather prestigious theatre company, which is huge news for him as he's been trying to get his foot in the door for so long. That's why tonight, we cracked into the cheap champaign rather than the beer, and we let our hair down by reading the business section like it was 1999 while our socks and knickers tumbled round and round behind us in the dark.

---------------------------------

* Initial quote taken from The Age website, article "Aussie dollar falls on rae cut expectations" ('cause it was the first one I found with the word Economist in it - do you know how many finance articles don't feature that word?!)

WAKE UP AUSTRALIA (SYDNEY EDITION)

11th August 2008, 10:41am

INFOMERCIAL: DOGGIEROBICS

HOST: HELEN-MARIEE SINCLAIR

GUEST: TIFFANY SPOKES-WINTON (& FIFI)

HOST: And next up, have you ever wondered how to keep your four-legged friend in top shape? Throw a ball in the backyard? What if, like many of us these days, you haven't got the space? Well, our next guest has come up with the perfect solution, so let's welcome Tiffany Spokes-Winton and Fifi!

(applause)

HOST: Hi Tiffany. (bends down to pat FiFi) Awww, hello you! Aren't you gorgeous! So, Tiffany, can you tell us about Doggierobics? What's it all about?

GUEST: Certainly Helen-Mariee. Well, I'm a dog person, as you probably can tell. I love dogs. I grew up with dogs. I couldn't live without dogs. But, you know, I just found poor FiFi wasn't getting all the exercise she could, you know, in my little flat and we went for walks and stuff but she was always, like, trying to get in my handbag rather than run around and she was starting to get, you know, a little on the heavy size for a toy poodle like her . . .

HOST: Oh yes, and she's such a teeny tiny little thing too, isn't she?

GUEST: Oh I know! She's so dainty, I just love her to bits. Anyway, I started doing some research and got a lot of experts involved, you know, like Doga practitioners . . . 

HOST: Doga, that's yoga for dogs, right?

GUEST:  Yes, that's correct. So we got Doga practitioners on board, holistic dog experts, FiFi and I went over to LA where they're doing some incredible things for dogs, you know, dogs in big cities with busy lifestyles, and, like, we came up with this fantastic new program called Doggierobics.

HOST: That sounds great, Tiffany. Now, I understand that it's a work out for both you and your dog?

GUEST: Totally. We've combined both a dog work out with a human work out so you're really multitasking. It's great for people, you know, who are like really busy and this way you can exercise your dog and yourself at the same time! We offer other programs as well and we have a little boutique in the studio with all sorts of designer gear for your dog so it's like a one-stop-shop!

HOST: That's a fantastic idea! And where are you at now with Doggierobics?

GUEST: Well, we now have a complete thirty minute work out program available at our studio, Dogs with Bods, and we're also offering Doga and Aromatherapy for Dogs and a Nutritionist for obese dogs who want to keep trim, so, you know, we've got so many bases covered.

HOST: Sounds like doggie-heaven! And we've just got the details on screen now for anyone interested. And can any breed of dog do doggierobics?

GUEST: We've mostly designed it around toy dogs and small dogs, you know, the kind of dogs that fit in places with not a lot of space so they need more of a hand to keep fit.

HOST: So no St. Bernards then?

GUEST: (laughing) No, definitely not!

HOST: Ok, now you're all in your aerobics gear and we've got some floorspace set up for you over here, can you give us a demonstration?

GUEST: Sure! 

HOST: (as GUEST and DOG prepare) I just love how FiFi matches your outfit. She's such a gorgeous baby pink.

GUEST: I know! She is so adorable in pink! (to DOG) Aren't you Baby? Aren't you so adorable in pink? (to HOST) Alright, I think we're ready! Can we get some music?

HOST: Oh yes. Hit it!

(loud techno plays. GUEST & DOG enact a series of movements where GUEST lifts her own legs while stretching DOG up on two legs and pulling paws. DOG yelps and GUEST indicates to stop.)

HOST: Oh, dear, looks like FiFi's in a bit of trouble there. Maybe pulled a doggie-hammie . . .(DOG yelps/screams and limps; GUEST looks panicked) Ah, I think maybe we ought to leave it there . . . we'll be back with WAKE UP AUSTRALIA right after this break! (DOG collapses and GUEST screams; quick cut away to morning park scene with logo)

(AD BREAK)

HOST: Well, wasn't that fun? FiFi was . . . I mean, is such a little cutie. And just for those who missed it, the details for the Doggierobics studio are . . .

Hier zeige ich euch als Vorgeschmack nur ein paar Bilder - auf der Webseite gibt es sicher über 1000 davon!

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The Emperor's Lot

"Oh god, it's cold! And dark. And I'm hungry . . . wait, I think I felt something. Was that a crack? Oh no, false alarm. And I'm still cold.

Great, now we're shuffling around again. Only a few guys to go and I'll be at the front of the pack again. I hate being at the front of the pack. This whole winter thing would be alright if I could just stay nice and cozy in the middle. But no. "We're all in this together, Lads! We've all got to share the burden, take one for the team while the girls are away!" Like freezing our tail's off is something noble. Whatever.

But I hate being at the front so much. I can feel the ice forming on my back already and that wind is downright horrible - I can barely open my eyes, not that it would make any difference 'cause it's so bloody dark. And the guy next to me smells. Sure, the girls are all off enjoying themselves at the winter-long banquet, but seriously, would it hurt to preen once in a while, mate?

Ugh. I can't wait until the missus gets back. I hope she brings me back some take-away, too. I'm bloody starving. And my foot's gone dead. Stupid egg, why'd you have to be so heavy this year? Wait, hang on . . . I can see something . . . light, on the horizon! 'bout bloody time winter was on it's way out. Not long now, boys! "

Iqbal looked over at the girl in the passenger seat; like pretty much all fares this time of night on a Friday, she was drunk but she was nowhere near inebriated. Early-twenties, he guessed, neat, normal-looking with a touch of DIY indy chic, she was biting her lip and quietly sobbing to herself. 

"I don't even know why I'm so upset. I mean, my life's great, really , compared to so many other people. Like, I've got a got an education, I get really good grades, I've got a boyfriend, my parent's are still together and they give me lots of support and stuff, I've never been abused or hungry or on drugs or whatever, but I'm still so . . . so . . . " She sighed and kept crying quietly. Iqbal flicked the indicator and pulled onto the highway, leaving the glittering city lights behind and headed into the dark suburban expanses.

"You know what I always wanted to do with my life? I always wanted to be a pianist. And I was good, you know, I was really good. I even won some competitions. To me, playing piano was the most beautiful thing. Beautiful like mathematics. I just made sense and it was perfect in the way it worked and I never felt so complete then when I was playing.

"But no. You're to smart to do music, they said. I love my parents to bits, like, they've never hit me or been abusive or whatever, but I will never, ever forgive them for stopping my lessons and making me study science . . . never, ever forgive them for changing my life . . . changing what I could have been . . . " Iqbal had had many drunk, emotional passengers over the years - he had made listening-but-not-listening an art form - but the hurt and bitterness in this young girl's voice really got to him. He wished he could reach over and hug her like a brother, but that would be like suicide for a taxi driver like him. He stole another sideways glance at the girl, but she was staring glassy-eyed at her shoes, the mascara-tinted tears gathering on the tip of her chin.

"I look at my life and what I have now, and I should be really happy, and I feel bad that I'm not, you know? I graduate at the end of the year, then what? I think about it and it makes me, like, really frightened to think that I've been shoved into this career path, this life that's nice, you know, but it's just not me but I just go with it 'cause it's what everyone thinks I should do. It's the right thing to do but I fucking hate it." She looked up just long enough for her eyes to focus and recognise where she was. "Oh, left at the next set of lights, then third house on the right."

Iqbal pulled up and pressed the meter; her house was nice, two story with a big garage, freshly tiled roof and carefully manicured garden. He figured it must be her parents' house. The girl sniffled and fumbled through her purse for the fare.

"I'm sorry I just, like, gave you my life story like that. It's really depressing when I think the only person listens to me - just, you know, really listens - is some fucking Indian taxi driver," she said, and Iqbal felt at once deeply insulted and deeply sorry for her. "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. What I mean is thank you . . . keep the change . . ."

That Monday, Iqbal was back at university, laughing and joking with his friends as they left the post-grad lounge and made their way across the engineering building to get lunch. As they walked through the corridors, another group of students passed them the other way: amongst them, Iqbal recognised the girl from Friday night. For a second their eyes met, but to his disappointment he saw no recognition in hers; they kept walking, each going their separate ways like strangers, the divide firmly in place.

---------------------------------

Just another vignette today. The word of the day was a really difficult one to deal with, but all I could think of is that kind of floodgate emotional release you get when you're too pissed to be happy-tipsy but not pissed enough to be completely out of it.

"Giang! Come and get your mother, she's causing trouble and scaring away my customers!" snapped Mrs. Hoang in Vietnamese. Giang sighed and excused herself from her tutorial: her mother was in the dress shop again.

Down in the university carpark, Giang sat with the engine idling and the sound system throbbing with an aggressive techno beat. She knew the routine all too well. Reaching into the glovebox, she pulled out a small bottle of pills and a packet of pink wafer biscuits and carefully prized one apart, pressing a small tablet into the white, sugary cream in the centre. After putting the wafers back together, she grabbed another and wrapped the biscuits together in cling wrap. There always had to be two.

Pulling out of the park sharply, she made her way across the city, the hammering music driving all thoughts and frustrations from her. Slowing down past the shop to find a park, she could see her mother in the window, yelling at a mannequin in an embroidered purple evening gown; she was in her favourite dress and had carefully styled her greying hair before she left home, but by now she was looking dishevelled and deflated. Mrs. Hoang hovered in the doorway, running out to Giang's car as soon as she found a park, shouting: "You should take more care of your mother! You can't keep letting her wander around like this!"

Back in the shop, her mother was now sobbing, clutching desperately at the mannequin in a deep embrace. "Sorry," Giang replied in English, "but I've got to go to uni."

"Spoilt brat. When I was your age, I'd been sewing for five years! Don't talk to me about uni!" Mrs. Hoang continued in Vietnamese but Giang had already turned to her mother. She was now weeping quietly against the mannequin's chest, muttering in Vietnamese: "Oh, Big Sister, you are always so beautiful! But I lost you! I lost sight of you! You went, Big Sister, you went and I couldn't find you. I tried so hard to find you but you were lost and I was so scared . . ." Giang gently pried her away from the plastic figurine, comforting her and leading her out the doorway. A dark smudge bled across the purple satin from her mother's tears.

"It's ok, Mum," Giang whispered, "it's ok. I brought you some wafer biscuits, your favourite . . ."

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Just a little vignette today, inspired by something I saw some time ago while I was on a tram on Victoria Street.

Vi no BlueLinks

Por Rodrigo

O Worth1000, para quem ainda não conhece, trata-se de um comunidade de profissionais e estudantes que se interessam por edição e manipulação de imagens.
Na verdade foi criado preferencialmente para profissionais do Photoshop (Editor de Imagens da Adobe) onde eles podem exibir seus talentos em várias competições temáticas que são lançadas constantemente no website. O acervo de imagens da comunidade é imenso com muitos trabalhos realmente excepcionais.

Vai querer o link? http://www.worth1000.com/

Confira a qualidade nestas duas imagens.

Site : Worth1000

A resposta para essa pergunta capiciosa é complexa. Não existe um nego que fica fazendo montagem feito um louco para divertir, ou mesmo que ganha pra isso. Existem vários!

Grande parte das montagens feitas hoje são fruto do site Worth1000.com. Um site que promove concursos de photoshop.
Eles decidem um tema e quem quiser participar manda suas montagens para o site, que escolhe e premia o vencedor com uma graninha que varia de concurso pra concurso.

A criatividade dos dois lados é uma coisa rara. Os temas são de uma variedade impressionante, e as montagens rendem muitos spams daquelas pessoas "super ocupadas" que acharam no site as montagens e se sentem na obrigação de mandar para seus 518 amiguxos e amiguxas.

Se você anda entediado, precisa de uma boa dose de bizonhisse para começar a trabalhar ou mesmo quer mandar um email com montagens bacanas para seus 518 amigos mais chegados, então tá aí recomendadíssimo Worth1000.com.

Para vc que esta no programa de inclusão digital e ainda naum conhece, o worth1000 é um site onde os profissionais de photoshop, podem mostrar a sua capacidade, que (fala sério) é show....

E, eu quero mostra (para quem quiser ver) as caricaturas de gente famosa, como a de baixo, do autor............. Bem esqueci o nome do autor e to com preguiça de procurar... Mas ta ai, acho que vcs conhecem ele:

Caso queira ver as outras, clique no Banner, ou na imagem acima, ou aqui, ou aqui, ou aqui....