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I’d Like That Yesterday, Thanks.

Posted by Wombat Central on July 24, 2015 in I love the 80's, Photography, Technology challenged |

If you’re in my age bracket, you’re familiar with cameras that utilized actual rolls of film. If you’re not, here’s a visual:

film camera

This is a slick model that automatically forwarded the film for you after each shot. No winding for this modern lady!

 

 

If you’re a smidgen younger than I am, you might be better acquainted with these:

Kodak would prefer you call this a "single use camera" instead of using the "D" word (pssst: disposable).

Kodak would prefer you call this a “single use camera” instead of using the “D” word (disposable).

 

 

They were frequently found on tables at weddings so guests could fill them with obscene pictures to be found months after the event wonderful candids of one other and the wedding party. They also tagged along on a lot of family vacations. Hand one to a kid and you might as well roll down the car window and toss out 10 bucks. Most will be of their stuffed animals, and the rest are pretty much guaranteed to be a blurry blobs.

Film cameras were kind of a crapshoot from start to finish. The uncertainty of it all just added to the adventure:

  • Did the film holes catch on the nubby things that move it along     or am I taking endless shots without the film advancing?
  • Was the film fresh (I’ve had film in my fridge for years. YEARS.)?
  • Was it blurry?
  • Did I get everyone in the shot, including their heads?
  • Was anyone blinking?
  • Wardrobe malfunctions?
  • Photobombers?

You didn’t know until you got that film back from being processed.

WHICH. TOOK. AN. ETERNITY.

Or so it felt.

Once you drove up to the Fotomat and ceremoniously handed it through the window to the trusty employee, you were all anticipation.

fotomat

Source

And that was one-day service in most cases! I always imagined the employee hiding behind that tiny counter rifling through your precious photos–some of which might have been taken without your knowing it. “Oh, sweet Jeebus, don’t let there be anything bad on those prints,” you’d think to yourself as you picked them up from the smirking kid.

[SIDEBAR: I also hate to admit how much brain space I allotted to wondering about the where and when of bathroom breaks for the people in that tiny booth. There couldn’t have possibly been room for a terlit in there. And if there was, did he post a little sign in the window when he used it?]

Um, did you wash your hands, there, fella?

Um, did you wash your hands before fondling my photos, fella?

 

When Fotomat folded, we went to mail order via Clark’s or York. That took an eternity. We aged about five years waiting for those prints to grace our mailbox. Didn’t matter that the film had been in the camera for three years and in a drawer for another two.

We wanted them back STAT! We could wait no longer to see them once we’d handed them off to someone.

Nowadays it’s a one-hour turnaround. I capture rapid-fire frames of Mister Man doing a karate jump off the coffee table and 60 minutes later I have a crisp print of him mid-air. No blinking, blurring, or missing body parts. Of course the employees there have seen everything you’ve sent, but you’re able to check digitally for anything that might be amiss.

The modern-day issue is that my hard drives are bursting at the seams with digital images and movies. One of them is near capacity, and I fear it may walk off the job any moment.

I guess I should get on that whole “weeding out” project soon. Like, yesterday.

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Movie Monday – Kingsman: The Secret Service

Posted by Wombat Central on July 21, 2015 in Furry Friends, Movies |

We’ve been scouring library shelves for this one for a while now, since the previews looked so good. We watched it last night, and I found it a bit lengthy at 129 minutes (especially for a week night!). Maybe a bit more editing would have been useful.

It was based on the comic book of the same name, but the flavor of this film could be loosely described as James Bond meets Quentin Tarantino with a side of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A friend had told me it was extremely violent, but I thought, “Psssh. I’m sure I’ve seen worse.” Yeah. Not so sure I have.

So, let me warn you: IT’S PRETTY DANG VIOLENT.

If you, like the villain, are adversely affected by blood (or the severing of limbs), this may not be the movie for you. There are only so many times you can get up for snacks/bathroom to miss scenes like that. This movie may have more of these scenes than you have a need for food or the terlit.

That said, it did have its good points–the always dashing Colin Firth, whom it was fun to see as a gadget-toting, smooth-talking, gentlemanly secret agent; Samuel Jackson as a loose cannon colorful villain with a speech impediment that may or may not resemble that of a famous boxer; and newcomer cutie Taron Egerton as their latest scruffy-to-smooth, looks-pretty-dang-good-sans-shirt recruit.

Since I couldn’t find these on The Youtube, I did some low-tech recording in order share two of my favorite moments from the movie:

The rarley seen (in this film anyway) full-on double-dimple-delight grin from Mr. Firth:

 

Running with pug in shirt (if they hadn’t already done this in slo-mo, I would have done it for you), because this:

 

Hoping they dubbed in the puppy noises! Here’s an official trailer (Ermahgerd–it actually says “official trailer”):

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I’ll Drink to That.

Posted by Wombat Central on July 15, 2015 in Bloggers, Friends, Life, Too Much Time on my Hands |

Share a coke with wombat

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Fire Up Those Canadian Calculators

Posted by Wombat Central on June 23, 2015 in Giveaway! |

This morning I was on a contest kick. I signed up for a few things online and wanted to make sure I was checking out the fine print of the contest rules. What I found was pretty interesting:

In the event Canadians are eligible to enter as specified in the Eligibility paragraph below, and if there is a Canadian Winner, the Winner will be required to correctly answer a mathematical skill testing question as a condition of receiving the prize.

 

Is it just me or does it seem like they’re looking for a way to get out of giving the prize to a Canadian citizen? Now I’m wondering what kind of math problem they’ll be required to solve. I imagine it would be something like this:

Two hosers took off and bought 5 tukes for CDN$10.98 each. If hoser Mike covers 62 percent of the cost and hoser Getty covers 38 percent, how much would box seat tickets to the Maple Leafs be?*

As it turns out, a friend of mine whose wife is from the Great White North explained that Canadian contests are actually run this way. They’re required to answer a simple math problem before collecting their winnings. Sounds reasonable enough. But still an odd clause to find in a U.S. contest, if you’re asking this gal.

 

 

 

*Apologies to any tuke wearing Canadian friends who found the stereotypes in this math problem offensive. I learned most of what I know of Canada via Bob and Doug in the 80’s. So take off, eh?

 

 

 

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What. Is. That. Song?!

Posted by Wombat Central on June 2, 2015 in The Boob Tube |

Every so often I’ll hear a song a commercial that grabs me, and I need to have it for my collection. At the very least, I need to listen to it ad nauseum on YouTube until the song crush subsides and I select a new favorite tune of the week. For instance, a few years ago, I really liked the song at the end of this ad (skip ahead to :53):

 

Apparently, so did a lot of other people, because one quick look on the Interwebs, and I found many people had posted the same query. So then I watched the real deal. Love the self-deprecating Gump humor and funky fresh beat in this video, so I ended up adding the song to my personal music library:

 

The only thing that could possibly beat that song with a rabbit and a bat wid a hat was this adorably nerdly (and surprisingly catchy) cover:

 

ABC has a new show they’ve been advertising every chance they get–The Whispers. Creeeepyyyy! The Girly runs out of the room every time one of the ads comes on, and I can’t say I blame her. Great googly moogly, I don’t know how people watch creepy shows. I watched one episode of American Horror Story and felt like I needed therapy afterward. That was some disturbing shizazzle.

This show surely won’t reach that level of twisted, but it looks just creepy enough to keep wimps like me at bay. BUT! The song they played on one of the promos grabbed me by the shirt collar and pleaded for me to find it and listen to it in all its full-length glory. It wasn’t enough to make me want to see the show, but I was ready to search high and low for the full song. There was something familiar about it.

Here’s the one-minute promo with the song in it:

 

Creepy, yes? Even having the handsome Aiden from Revenge as a main cast member isn’t enough to make me watch.

Mr. Wombat placed the song in about three seconds, but he didn’t know the band doing the cover. He and I both really like the cover! I’m an 80’s girl, but I more of an alternative gal.

It’s haunting, yes, but catchy and it works:

 

Hearing that version makes me want to see the Go-Go’s get all goth and writhe around in a cemetary in slow motion. Or I could just listen to it on The YouTube and enjoy it with no images.

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If You Put Your Dream on Paper

Posted by Wombat Central on May 21, 2015 in Helpful Hints, Life, Life Enrichment |

You know how your dreams are really vivid when you first wake up from them, and you say to yourself, “Oh, I’m sure I’ll remember this in the morning,” but years of saying just that to yourself has taught you quite the opposite? You also know that if you take the time to write it down, the morning light reveals nothing but a scattered bunch of doodly doos that make no sense, and the act of writing will leave you fully awake, and THEN what?

There’s always the option of reaching into your bedside table and fumbling for your handy dandy digital voice recorder, but you also know that it hasn’t actually housed batteries since Obama’s first term in office. I think it goes without saying that a full-on 4 a.m. hunt for functioning batteries would not only render your brain wide-a-freakin’-wake, but the dog would also think it was time for breakies and she would never relent until you fed her.

Then it becomes like one of those If you Give a Mouse a Cookie books, but slightly way less cute, because she would then have to got out to go potty. Where she would invariably troll for bunny turds, and you’d have to whisper scream at her to stop because the neighbors are trying to sleep, and also because it’s disgusting.

If you got her to come back inside, she would do her clumsy Marmaduke dash up the stairs and cry outside your bedroom door because, “Oh mah Gawd, mah Daddeh is in there and I lubs him so much I cannot bear to be without him for one more second.” Once you convinced her to come back downstairs, she would break out her squeaky armadillo toy and wake your children. Who, incidentally, are moderately unpleasant downright miserable when awakened before their alarm clocks summon them to start their days.

So, I don’t remember that much about my dream, but I thought I’d hand it over to you for interpretation. I arrive in some building for an interview, but I’m wearing jeans and a nice shirt. I explain to my friend who works there that I’m over the whole suit thing, because I did that for so many years. I am also missing one of my black ballet flats, which my friend is helping me attempt to locate in the building. It’s in there somewhere. Oddly, I don’t seem terribly rocked by the fact that I’m walking around with one shoe.

As I scan the building for said shoe, I pass by the door where the interviewing is taking place. (I also know the woman who is doing the interviewing, and I figure she’ll be cool with the whole jeans thing.) The question I overheard was about which female broadcasters(?) public figures(?) the applicant saw as a good role model. One of the names she listed was Diane Sawyer. “Pshh,” I thought. “She uses barbaric interviewing tactics. She doesn’t care about feelings, just ratings.”

“Oh, gosh. I better come up with some females I admire.” I thought of a few (they escape me now). Then I had the brilliant idea that I should have been writing them down, because it was highly likely that I would forget all their names under the pressure of retrieving the list mentally, then my eyes would gloss over and I would surely not get the job. I’m sure it would have nothing to do with my wardrobe selections.

I think it just sums up where I feel I am at this point in life, and it’s pretty much Frankie Heck’s life in this moment:

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