Two Claires, a guy and an after party (Part Two) …

Two stories come to mind when I slide into this John Butler Trio scribble tee: The How-I-Got-It part, and the How-I-Didn't-Get-It part. Both make awesome memories and both take place in the second half of Year 12 ... that endless summer of 2003.

How-I-Didn't-Get-It part:

I could've kissed her.

Yep, for sure.

Really?

Yeah, I was in.

Really?

Well, you'll never know -- now.

This is what I hear in my head every so often when I pull out this old John Butler Trio T-shirt. (The other times, I'm thinking of the Claires, as you can read here.)

And no, it's not like a tear-me-up-inside fire of doubt that rages inside -- I'm very happily married to Laura, who is, without bias, the most beautiful and lovely carbon-based being in this galaxy and George Lucas's.

(Hear that, Princess Leia? Laura destroys you on the gorgeous-o-metre!)

The shirt just makes me slightly curious and a smudge wistful; like when I've nailed a front page photo and look at it the next morning and think, "what if I'd brought in another flash…"

I wouldn't change a thing if I had the power to … even if it would spare me the embarrassment of this story.

The place: Year 12 After Party, December '03, Captain Audrey Park club house.

The situation: My date had all but abandoned me as soon as I got her past the bouncer at the door (heartbreaker), but I was fast getting over it, because, against all odds, I'd found myself slow dancing with a rather lovely young lady.

For her sake, we'll rename her to, let's say, um Zany Redridge.

(On a totally unrelated point -- I think it's fun to rhyme, don't you?)

Zany Redridge. Yikes. Several years worth of history was coming to a head right at that moment.

She says, "hey, Ben? I like your shirt," and I almost pass out.

Is this really happening to me?

I'd had a crush on her since, like, the start of Year 11, and every now and then I reckoned she liked me a bit, too, but circumstances never led it anywhere.

You could define "unicorn" with her description, so 18-year-old me thought. (Fabled creature, impossible to capture: Gone in 60 Seconds.)

So we're dancing, and the music is slowing, and we're like really dancing, and my head's getting that fuzzy glow about it, and I'm hoping her's is too.

You'll agree that this was a pretty nice place for a teenager to be, right?

Right.

So why why, did I start listening to my stupid brain.

It says: "Ben, you should go check on your date."

No way. Not listening to that, says the rest of my body. Gonna stay right where I am. Nowhere I'd rather be.

Smart, right?

Right.

So my mouth says: "Hey Zany."

She smiles, eyes wide. "Hey Ben."

My mouth says: "I'm gonna check on my date."

And felt instantly like someone doused our cosy encounter with an icy spray from a firehouse.

"Oh--".

And that was that. Amy was gone.

Why'd I say that? Still don't know today.

Why did I blog this on the interweb and link it to facebook, knowing my mates will tease the crap out of me?

Part of it is 'cause my T-shirts thread me to memories that helped me grow as a person. That night, as I slow-danced into paralysis I learned what I hope any other teenage dude reading this will learn too.

After you read this, Teenage Dude, I want you to promise me something.

If you ever find yourself in the arms of a girl you'd been crushing all high school, don't think, just kiss her. Or at least try to.

Don't over brain it. Trust in your T-shirt.

But even if you bottle it, it's not so bad.

It may take a few years, but you'll meet a girl to love that is every bit as awesome to you as Laura is to me, and everything will turn out golden.

B--

Ninja Turtles T-shirt (and the Cowabunga Dudes) ...

I'd rather not grow out of some things.

This Ninja Turtles T-shirt is one, and others include mates Adam Duke, Shane Wicke, David Clarke and Anthony Lowe.

These dudes and Ninja Turtles aren't separate things. They're like Turner and Hooch. Han and Chewbacca. Batman and Robin. Turk and JD. Think of one of them, and Ninja Turtles is there floating in the back of my mind.

The first episode of Turtles aired about 1990, right about when we rocked up for our first day at Batemans Bay Pre-School, with lunchbox and piece of fruit to share.

We all knew what we'd be playing the second we were let out in the yard for morning tea. Turtles. And given that each of us had a Turtles lunch box, it wasn't long before the five of us assembled in the red phone box (our secret lair) and in the concrete tunnel under the grass hill (our sewer).

Everything good about Dukey, Wicke, Clarkee, and Lowie (Woogie, he'd later hate to be called) can be summed up in an episode of Ninja Turtles.

Shane W – Michaelangelo

No arguments, Wicke was an energetic (read: bonkers) four-year-old. And he always had the coolest toys. He was the kid most likely to get us sat in the corner (to think about what we'd done), who possessed an uncanny ability to render us incapacitated via giggle fits as he parroted all the funniest lines from The Simpsons and SNES games.

(Oh, and he loved pizza but hated anchovies.)

David C – Raphael

A sharp, funny tongue with a short fuse, although he never unleashed it on anyone who didn't deserve it (well, mostly). Dave is the best Raphael I know, besides the plastic one in my toy box with MADE IN CHINA stamped on its crotch. Dave is always keen to jump in on an argument,
like any good Turtle would - Dave just considers it a bonus that he enjoys a good rumble so much.

A mates-before-dates kinda dude ... unless she was hot. In that case, he'd rightly lock his brother turtles out of his house and force them to crash in the freezing turtlevan.

Anthony L – Donatello

Wicke may have always had the coolest toys, but Ant's pockets were always packed with the maddest gadgets. If it was state-of-art and BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED, Ant had it, usually before it was in the shops. And he was always willing to share his dinky trinkets with his brother turtles. Anything Nintendo, he had one, way before the rest of us. So did each of his brothers and sister, come to mention it. Which meant big things for Turtle Power, as if the five of us were ever stuck on a long school bus trip, Ant would "borrow" his siblings' Gameboys so we could all play too.

Adam D – Leonardo

Dukey has done judo as long as I've known him. Which is my life minus about three years. So while he's seriously thoughtful, seriously gentle and occasionally seriously too serious, he could've kicked seven kinds of serious shit outta all of us. Which made him an excellent leader for a group of kids bound to come up against their fair share of bullies.
(Well, we were a rich kid, a redheaded kid, a video-game-addicted kid, a freckled kid, and a sick pale kid... not exactly tough targets for lunch-money thugs...) He was also the guy who'd always pick us to play soccer with him, even though we sucked, and, with much patience, taught us to play better.

Nearly two decades after that playground meeting ... I'm proud to say bugger all has changed, and that we've managed to stay mates.

Which Turtle am I?

Well, much as I love Leonardo – I got the full costume when I was six and wore it till I was like 12 – I'd say I slotted in as Casey Jones. Like Casey, I was (heck, still am) pretty goofy, not as
skilled as the others and hardly as cool. And I was often away in the hospital, so I could only guest star, at best.

But bless them, they let me play anyway. (Or maybe Mum sugared their pockets with Ghost Drops?)

So that's what I think of when I pull on this T-shirt - me and my buddies.

Heroes in a half shell.

Cowabunga, dudes.

B --

Two Claires, a guy and an after party (Part One) …

Two stories come to mind when I slide into this John Butler Trio scribble tee: The How-I-Got-It part, and the How-I-Didn't-Get-It part. Both make awesome memories and both take place in the second half of Year 12 ... that endless summer of 2003.

The How-I-Got-It part:

I owe it all to the Claires (Weston and Simpson). As my 18th birthday approached, Claire W organised me a thoroughly awesome ticket to join them at a John Butler concert at Sydney's Enmore Theatre, and I couldn't have been more stoked. I bought the tee at the shirt stand on the way in.

It's a bit faded now, and warped from being hung on the clothesline so often, but one glance at it spirits me back through time faster than a TARDIS ever could.
The Claires scored us tickets with seats. But because my birthday was some months after their birthdays, when they bought my ticket my seat was several rows back and all on its lonesome.

Well, almost.

Turns out I scored a seat next to some dude, his missus, and a baggie full of roofies he kept offering me.

"Want one, man? It'll totally amp your night.''

You betcha. "Nah, it's cool. Cheers, but."

Next thing, Dude's off to the bar and he comes back with a VB tinnie with it's topped popped, white froth fizzing out the hole.

"Have a beer then. Totally amp your night.''

Cheers, Mate. I dunno what he put in there, but the can's walls pulsed like an ill-maintained hedge clipper.

I mean, cripes, that beer was giving off fumes!

I could picture how I'd end up if I downed that beer -- hanging via atomic wedgie from a fire escape by my undies in Kings Cross with wet paint on my hands ... kicking back on a bed of ice with two small pangs in my lower back ... or walking into a motorcycle gang's dojo
and screaming "Bitches! Where are all the straight guys?"

So I waited a bit, bought the next round, and left the noxious brew at the bar, which by that stage twitched by itself like it had done three rounds in a paint mixer.

Then he paid again. Same routine.

I'm drinking my beers, so somewhere in the second hour, I'm struggling to remember which is brew is tainted.

That's when the T-shirt stepped up.

If I hung the tee over my left shoulder = my round. Down that fella.

Right shoulder = spill it on your jeans.

By the end of that sweaty, three-hour gig, I reckon I had the wettest crutch in Sydney. Who knows what the Claires thought when they saw me.

Should I have undone the top button on my girls' blouse and guzzled his beers? I still think no.

Still, despite the subterfuge, there were some ace tunes to be heard, and the two Claires and I had an awesome night.

And the Dude?

Well, by the end of the show, Dude and I shook hands, bro-hugged while he swore he'd call me on the seven-digit phone number I left him, and his Missus nanna-pashed my cheek and told me I was cute as I left.

Just proves hemp shirts don't have all the fun.

B --

Cotton candy for the lady ...

This T-shirt -- Laura’s favourite (on me, not her) -- reminds me of a major problem solved.
What in heck do you wear on a first date?
No, not just a first date, the flutters in waters said, the first date.
Since I met Laura Lambert at that party , I didn’t ever want another first date.
So it had to go well, which meant I had to choose my shirt wisely.
No stains or crinkles, but not over-ironed ... just an effortlessly understated statement.
Crud.
It was March in Batemans Bay, which meant the weather was awesome and warm, so it had to be shorts and T-shirt.
Wear pants and sleeves and she’d think I’m an Emo, or worse, a Mormon.

"So which shirt?’’ I asked the laundry basket.

Not one I’d worn on any date before (which eliminated about one from the pile), and not one that was dirty (which, sadly, ruled out plenty more than the aforementioned).

Hmmm -- gotta be a band shirt.
But which band? Choose wrongly, and the implications were ugly.

AC/DC = Bogan.
John Butler Trio = Hemp lovin’ hippie.
Jimmy Eat World = Emo cutter.
Green Day = Pre-pubescent emo cutter.
Butterfly Effect = Keep away from sharp objects.
Bad Religion = To impress the Minister’s daughter? Idiot, Ben!

The pile of discards grew large on my bed.

(For the record: I love these bands. Just giving you a look inside the panicked mind of a boy faced with the terrifying prospect of going on a date with a gorgeous girl.)

Then it hit me. The Streets tee. Pale blue with palm trees.

Peace was declared in the Middle East of my mind and everything the horizon touched turned golden.

I bought that shirt at a Big Day Out with Zeb because I kinda liked the band, just not enough to actually go see their live set, so I got the shirt, instead.

It was still a dicey call. I only really knew about one of their songs ... (``Your fit, my God, but don’t you know it ...’’), and if Laura ended being a fan and wanted to trade trivia, I’d be sunk.

But she wasn’t. Aces!

We ate fish on the floating jetty on the Tuross River ... sat on the bank a while, and ... um, while there is still some conjecture as to who actually kissed who first (it was so her), the main point is this.

We did kiss, it rocked -- still does, matter of fact -- and in no small part, I owe thanks to that 35-dollar cotton tee.
(Either that, or my legendary ability to generate affection out of pity.)

Love you Laura. So glad you dug the shirt.
B --

My heart on my sleeve (or sleeves)...

T-shirts.
I don't ever want to meet the person who doesn't love them.
Laura, bless her, reckons I have too many. So does Mum, now I think of it, as does Dad, and probably Jason, too.
They're wrong.
Dead wrong.

My shirts are my children. (Well, almost…)
No matter how old, stained, moth-eaten, I can't throw them out.

And why should I? After all, they have been very good to me.

The photo above is a slice-and-dice of almost forty of the tees that mean just that little bit more than the rest of the threads that have graced my kinda girlie shoulders in recent times.

They aren't necessarily my All-Time All-Stars … there may not be my grandfather's PMG work shirt I wear most Friday's to the paper; there's not the first band shirt my brother Jason presented to me when he came back from his first rock concert -- a sweaty black Screaming Jets number; or that Star Wars shirt I wore the first time I was kissed, or that blue The Streets shirt I wore that first date with Laura on the shores of One Tree Point, Tuross, NSW, the place where Laura and I had our first date, and I knew then that it'd be my last ever, first kiss.

(Actually – I've bent the rules a bit to include that tee …)

The shirts you'll meet in the next few weeks are my daily drivers.

Billboards to my soul. Comic books, cartoons, music and TV shows.

And triggers to awesome memories.
Laura.
Family.
Friends.
Batemans Bay.
Big Day Outs.
The finer of life moments.

Life is good, and so is cotton.

B--

Laura susses the competition ... (and realises there is NO competition...)

Hey all. Been way to long between drinks. Sorry -- but hopefully these delightful pics of Laura being bested by the (not-as-cool) Mercury's spot-the-difference will appease you. (See: cool)
It's been so long because between posts because I've only really wanted to post stuff I really liked, and what happened initially with this page was that I thought it'd be awesome to make a blog that was about cameras, photos, stuff, hopes, dreams, ambitions, veiled threats ... et all ... it goes on ... you devour it all, beer pours from the heavens, it's loved by all.
Wrong.
Lame.
Skip it.

Let's get a bit passionate, baby -- you're going to see what I wear on my sleeve from now on.

I promise. Literally.

Don't believe me? Stay tuned and see.

B --

Wellsy gets the gong!

Check it out!! The power of the internet. I start a blog a week ago, a bloke on facebook reads it, then nails the first shout out I put on it. STOKED!!

We posted this picture a few days ago and asked if anyone knew where Laura and I took it.

Turns out Grant did –- Table Cape, near Wynyard. Please extend the man all your kudos, awe, reverence and lustful glances in the ``comments'' below.

Specifically, it's a photo of Aquila Barn, the most awesome bed and breakfast We've ever seen or stayed at. Laura and I spent the first three nights of our honeymoon there, and soaked in the spectacular scenery, great weather (by Tasmanian standards) and, it goes without saying, delightful company.

It's been handcrafted inside what was originally a barn by owners Kay and Brian, who, believe it or not, came from Nelligen, near Batemans Bay, NSW ... small world, huh?

They are two amazing people who are well worth a chat when you stay there. They truly spoiled us on our stay and gave ``the rest of our lives'' a well-proper, luxurious kick off!

Here's a few pictures of ours we fired off on our Panasonic LX3, but their website, www.cloud9destinations.com.au, really does the place justice.

Oh, and here's an article written by some dude at The Advocate: http://www.theadvocate.com.au/news/local/news/general/from-dairy-farm-barn-to-quaint-bed-and-breakfast/1436547.aspx

.

Is this cool ... or crud?

I don't usually understand the rhythm of `arty shots'. (In fact, I'm certain I rarely do.)

Flowers and a bowl? Chair in the forest? What? C'mon, lets see a person - is how my brain is wired. It's a bit like landscape photography in the sense that I'm not very comfortable doing it, and I'd rather shoot something with a heart beat (or a motor), nearly every time I'm with camera.

You see them on websites and think ``yeah, that rocks'', or, more often and not in my case, ``nup, that doesn't''. So I steer clear and never bother with them.

But just because it's hard doesn't mean I should have a crack, so I'm putting up this offering for your ruthless appraisal. Don't just give me a stroke ... I'd be really stoked if you'd leave a thought or two that might slowly make me better at this sort of stuff.

I was stuck waiting for a while at the Burnie Regional Art Gallery one night to take a few socials at an opera night and this caught my eye. Regardless of your thoughts, Greg, the gallery manager, Is an absolute gem of a bloke, and if he's reading, thankyou again for the snacks and sandwiches. (And flexibility - I was more than 40 minutes late to this job thanks to some prior ego I had to photograph and he reorganised his night to make sure I had some pics to front my boss with.

Nice guy. You should buy a painting off him!

GEAR: Canon 40D, 17-35 f2.8 wide open, about 15th of a sec if memory serves.

(BTW -- Still waiting to hear from someone with regards to the mystery shot in my last post. C'mon guys -- North-West Tasmania ... how hard can it be? If you're thinking about 20 minutes west of Burnie and near some flowers you are in the right ballpark.)

Guess where? Hint? It's in Tasmania...

Props to the first person who leaves a comment that identifies where this picture was taken...

We made it...

More on this later, but the seagull won...

... Yes! Nice! The Advocate ran with our beloved seagull shot. SWEET! Even cooler was that it was taken on a dinky point-and-shoot... albeit a kick-ass Panasonic LX3.
It was taken in Ulverstone in Tasmania, Australia, about 25 minutes east of where Laura and I live at Burnie.
Thanks again for the sweet comments too! I know this is a new blog, and I'm learning, but I'll keep at it and hopefully you guys will too.
Cheers,
Ben

See how the seagull goes...

So. Here it is. My first post. On my first blog. SWEET! Okay … it might be a little geeky … but I read recently that there’s like one blog for every three people on the planet ( or was that 30, or 300 or 3000?) … anyways, that’s not important. The thing is, if there’s that many people doing it … who cares.

Besides, it’s a good writing out for me, as I’ve just shifted from reporter/photographer to full-time photographer at The Advocate newspaper in down-town North-West Tasmania.

The picture here is in the running to become the Advocate’s Pic of the Week … and I like it for all sorts of reasons:

* It was taken on one of the rare sunny days in Tasmania at a kick-ass park in a place called Ulverstone. (I swear the thermometer busts past 20 degrees about six times a year, at best.) Laura and I were having a picnic and it was awesome.
* I like it because it was taken on our filthy sweet new compact camera called a Panasonic LX3. This thing rocks! It oozes rangefinder cool – is unassuming and takes stellar pictures. I have this camera on me more than my wallet lately … and we bought it with the proceeds of the gift money we were given at from our wedding. So Thankyou!!
* The seagull was damn plucky … barely a handspan away! He flapped and inched forward, squawked, back-tracked, then came in hard with wings up all-a-menace!! Pushed through the fear for the sandwich crumbs to join the ranks of the truly brave.

HOW WE DID IT: Throw down the sandwich chunk, pre-focus, hold that trigger halfway, and wait … wait … wait … CLICK!

We’ll know on Saturday morning when the paper hits the driveway if it makes the cut … there are some killer photogs at the Advocate and I’m new so we’ll have to wait and see.

(BTW – I know there’s a few bits I could’ve cloned out of the background, like the light pole, bits of brown grass et al, but as a newspaper guy I’m still kinda uneasy about all that. What do you guys reckon?)

This is going to be legen ... wait for it ...

... dary.

More to come. Welcome to Benography.