Inspired by the glorious designs of Karin Silva
Suggested Audio Jukebox:
 Kajagoogoo “Too Shy”
 The Buggles “Video Killed The Radio Star”
 Duran Duran “Girls on Film”
 Madonna “Vogue”
 Miley Cyrus “Wrecking Ball (Caked Up Remix)”
I’ve never really been one for photographs. As a matter of fact, from the age of sixteen to my mid-thirties, I’m not altogether sure that a single photo exists. You see, standing in front of the camera has never been my most comfortable spot, and I find the whole process excruciating if truth be known. Right now I expect many of you are nodding your heads in agreement as so many of us are camera-shy and likely feel precisely the same way. Getting it over with seems to be the collective wish and that all depends on who is sitting at the other side of the lens. Indeed, it often feels like a cruel trick designed to make us squirm, as the moment is drawn out to the absolute limit and beyond, and those smiles start resembling something far more agony-themed. If you zoom right in and observe closer, you can normally spot the inner anguish bubbling beneath the surface. It’s even more hilarious in group photos as we all fidget in unison. Perhaps that is why selfies have taken off in the past few years as at least they are under our direct jurisdiction.
We all dread the results from impromptu photo shoots as pictures are posted without our say so, often accentuating our least favorite features. Eyes become red, chins multiply, boogers make unwanted appearances in our bat caves, and the wind catches our hair at the most inopportune moments, leaving us resembling Doc from Back To The Future. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, alas, there is no accounting for wretched taste. Of course, some of us have our pout down to pat and feel totally at ease before the roving mechanical eye. For the rest of us however it is the slowest torture imaginable and we duck away at every available opportunity. Should I be enjoying a day out, then there seems something a dash counter-productive about being too click happy. It’s all well and good having mementos of our chosen excursion but there’s a balance to be struck and the experience itself is uppermost. Spend too much time locked in frame and you forget whatever the hell sights you’re supposed to be seeing in the first place.
I’m not best equipped for photographs as it is now two years since I cancelled my mobile contract. I still possess my iPhone but it has decided it no longer wishes to communicate with my laptop thus any photos snapped are trapped in limbo and I have no way of transferring them from A to B. Granted, much of this is down to me being a technical gibbon and, while adept at WordPress, the simplest of tasks can pose far more than the 99 problems that Jay-Z bitches about. It’s not that I am a technophobe or anything like that, simply a matter of priorities and there seem far more pressing concerns to me than sussing out how to navigate Windows 10. Indeed, I have spent the past six months ducking and diving every time the download prompt showed its face, and foolishly thought I had gotten away with it too. That was until tragedy struck and the dreaded update took it upon itself to install without my consent. Three hours I sat there like a plum, knowing that my sole reward would be absolute discombobulation come the inevitable restart.
To be fair, it actually wasn’t as bad as I had expected and normal business resumed in no time. That said, I now have a young lady by the name of Cortana lurking by my taskbar and I’m not altogether convinced that she likes me you know. “Ask me anything” she says and I have tried precisely that to no avail. While I’m sure that ten minutes of research would explain a whole lot, I have far more important things to do with my time than tickle her into submission. If I were an astronaut, then I’m assured that she would assist massively in alleviating the boredom, but I’m not and neither is that on my bucket list so she can sit there in silence for all I care. I’m sure I’m missing out as Cortana likely has a particularly sexy voice. But unless said voice is Stevie Wayne, it just doesn’t seem worth all the legwork. Fuck it, I’ve been a technical gibbon for forty years plus change already, so what’s another forty in oblivion? It would be different if she donated her services to mechanized masturbation. In years to come, Cortana may be donated a right arm and, when she does, then perhaps I’ll reconsider her proposal. I just hope she doesn’t give me a dry slap for keeping her waiting for so long.
Anyhoots, with photos at a distinct premium, I traditionally use the same precious few repeatedly for the sole purpose of signing off. So when gifts are donated such as the ones adorning this article, I click my heels promptly and lap that shit up like Benji. Thanks to my dear friend Karin Silva, I now know how it feels to be Tony Montana. Granted, the probability is that I will end up riddled with bullets and swan-diving into a fountain, but at least I’ll get to sleep in the wet patch left behind by Michelle Pfeiffer. Unlike my scar-faced little friend, I have no intention of letting any power go to my head and, if my best friend shacks up with one of my sisters without first running it by me, there will be no retribution served. Neither will I lock myself down in my office counting cash as I haven’t fucking got any. But I do happen to be rather partial to suits and donning one may well earn me the cheeky ass grabs that I’m regularly threatened with. Besides, the above pictorial did somewhat tickle me pink.
Bizarrely enough, I’m never more relaxed than when caught between the crosshairs of a video camera and, should you have viewed the numerous podcasts I have partaken in with my brother Silent Shadow, then you will never discern a solitary droplet of brow sweat. Moreover, I have now acted in two films with more no doubt on the horizon, and have found myself gazing into its one eye rather affectionately. You wanna know why this is so effortless? My very first scene was opposite no other than the glorious Diane Foster. This lady is a consummate professional and also happens to have in her possession one of the most striking pair of peepers ever popped into the sockets. One look and an infinite number of tools became readily at my disposal. I knew where to locate my A-game instantly and she guided me through my opening take like Keeper’s very own Keeper. It seemed only right as it was her who donated the mantle in the first place. Until then I had simply been Crimson Quill and this was leading to no end of confusion.
The cameras rolled, I became swept away in her tidal wade of endorsement, and the results were unanimous. Moreover, director Matt Farnsworth zoomed that shit in every chance he got as he knew only too well that it was all in the eyes with me. The good old windows to the soul never fail and they never once felt threatened by his burly sentinel. Since then I have been open to similar experiences but it recently dawned on me that there’s more than one way to skin that pussy. Thus I now have a cunning master plan as revealed in my recent post, Now You See Me. So here’s the thing – I am never more content than when reading my work personally. Story Time has long since been a consideration for me and, should I cease getting my gibbon on, then the plan is to provide this option for every post by the time winter draws in. You see, I write precisely as I speak, and the whole Keeper Experience is designed to be delivered this way. This is where a dash of ingenuity comes in handy as my crazy plan is to eventually take this shit on the road and, if you have read a recent piece of mine by the name Now You See Me, then you may have an inkling as to the method my madness is looking to take here.
I’ve always been a fan of stand-up comedy ever since Eddie Murphy strutted deliriously for our delectation way back in 1983. Now I’m not professing to be a suchlike comic genius although that red leather number would fit rather snugly around my nectarinal buttocks. This is where fusion comes in and I happen to have considerable experience in seminars from my five-year stint working for local government. That said, they were as dry as a Zulu’s jockstrap, and forty minutes through said “training exercises” I would glance around and discern only glazed eyes and chin drool. Just staying awake was nigh on impossible and I lost count of the amount of well-meaning rib digs I received in favor of shaking me from my comatose state. Have you ever attempted to hold your eyes open while Mr. Monotone is delivering a sermon on health and safety protocol? Even Cortana’s arm wouldn’t have ended this slump and, if I ever see another power point presentation for as long as I live, then I’m grabbing the first pie chart I spot and slamming it straight in the infidel’s face with 47% fury, 31% disgust, and the other 22% the sheerest of delight.
I’m going off topic but this is where I see my future right now. Delivering rants such as this to a packed auditorium and showing the free world what a select few seem to glean rather a lot of pleasure from. Given that I now have a dash of performance under my belt, I promise to be nothing less than animated, and that extends to providing any additional voices for the likes of any dialogue included. Fuck it, I can hold a tune too, so you may even get a dash of crooning. It’s definitely a little out of left-field but few others seem to have spotted this opening and I’d adore taking this show on the road as it may just conclude with me playing in your home town. Sure it’s incredibly ambitious but so was the prospect of Hannah Montana ended up swinging naked on a wrecking ball five years ago and look where her vadge ended up. I want to ride a wrecking ball dagnabbit. Why should Miley get all the fun? Auntie Karin dearest, please make it so.
What do you mean it’s photoshopped? Are you suggesting these breasts aren’t mine? I already told you that no photos exist of me through my entire twenties and it just so happens that I happened upon a windfall during that time and stocked myself up on oestrogen pills. Okay you got me, I’m shit to capacity, but I did see squinting there for a picosecond. Besides, who is to say that my harebrained scheme won’t work? I promise to place both heart and soul into this and all I need is a shot right? Until that time arrives or I finally die trying, I shall attempt to figure out the whole iPhone thing, as I no longer feel quite so bashful.
As for selfies, well I can see the attraction you know. At least it is under our sole control and not drawn out for any longer than is absolutely necessary. Plus, should my chin count tally up to any more than three, then I can just crop that shit out or superimpose some text across chins two to four. Perhaps a filter will help too, something suitably shadowy to conceal the wayward booger. Nah, warts and all I say. If my ship’s going down, then there seems little point in trying to come across all Captain Ahab when I’m clearly little more than a deck hand. To be brutally honest, I’m only in it for the “cheese”. Always have been a sucker for dairy.
Welcome Grueheads to Karin’s Closet, home of a fair few rattling chains and brain sucking nasties. You see, Ms. Silva has a world all of her own and wonderful it is too. Using the wonders of hotlinking, you can visit her inner sanctum just by clicking here. Alternatively, stick around, and listen to me blather on some in the usual inane manner and likely veer woefully off-point. Actually, my head will remain in the game momentarily as, in Karin, I have a very dear friend for life and I am blessed to have made this young lady’s acquaintance. Always chipper, even when life is kicking her ass with its size twenty-sixers, she is also in possession of not a solitary soiled bone. Chilled to the hilt, she is also gloriously creative, and never happier than when crafting something from nothing. Horror fires her pistons so the smell of formaldehyde is never far away. That said, she’s also pretty white-hot at the fusion and will take inspiration from wherever it may dock on her landing stretch. I implore you to take a stroll through her closet and trust you’ll not lose your way. Remember to follow the trail of breadcrumbs and, if you see that Crypt Keeper fellow skulking about amongst her evening dresses, please tell him that he owes me twelve bucks. Thank you Karin for being flat-out awesome and a true friend to the end no less.