Wedding Rings in Cables
The fan on my video card is crapping out, so I have to leave the side of my computer off and "tap" the fan once in a while to keep it quiet. So I thought, let’s take the rings our of the "norm" and put integrate them into some technology.
On the rocks
Got home in time to enjoy some day light. The creek was almost completely frozen over except for a few spots where some fast water was.
Each time I had to move the ring around, I’d move my camera back to the shore, then put it back on the ice and recompose the shot. Got myself a little wet kneeling down on the ice, but didn’t (knock on wood) get anything soaked.
I think I might need to get a neutral density filter. I never thought I’d need one, but I shot at 100 ISO, and had the aperture at f/40.0, just to try and get a slow shutter speed.
Junior Fire Chief – Hayden
He loves his little fireman’s hat. Every night he plays with it for hours. There are all kinds of holes in it now from where he chews through it. We bought him this new sleeper as well, so I had to grab a few shots with him in it and with his favourite hat.
This one also goes out to John Piercy in the HFG! Cheers brother!
Ring Shot – Marshmallows
Ultimate Titanium Matrix
It’s too cold to golf, so I thought I’d show my clubs in a nice blue light.
Address To a Haggis…
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.
Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a haggis!