the shot, with bruce willis and george clooney
Craig Parry is a dumpy little golfer untroubled by a bad loss for all of his professional career, possibly because of his longshaft putter. Formidable things them are, because he has short little legs.
Craig Parry, the other Craig Parry who takes pics and has a shop down here, with, and this is why I like the bloke, a rack of vintage John Pennings’ prints – is open for business.
And you want reminding about what it was like up here in 1964? Just ask me or my good old mate Penno who I never met.
But I met the other Craig Parry the other day, after a short chat with Bruce Willis on the headland. Bruce had been pointed my way by an editor with an interest.
Surf magazine. Has interest. In blog.
Makes no sense does it.
May though is apparently the ‘ What the fuck do we print this month?’ copy, so we met.
Serious business this talking about possible exposure in a widely racked magazine, so I’m George Clooney and he’s Bruce Willis. This is how the times can infect otherwise commercial arrangements.
Photographers, like Craig, carry some quality clicking gear when they show up for work, like at any point up here under assault by 10′ made in heaven marching lines. That’s when CP cracks out his choice of units for the day. This stuff he keeps in suitcases under his bed. A Panasonic Lumix DMC-TZ30. A Nikon D 3200, or his Canon Powershot A4000 IS.
Because one day Parry will get the shot. The one.
In the meantime we’ve pitched Bruce the idea that if his boss is interested, howabout we throw him something alluring to read here, a selection, stuff that might go down well printed in between the glossy covers. Like paying out on Dodger Lynch, or Dr. Jockitch and his red sluggos. Have him come by lowville and sample the product.
The stuff we do. In between the fucken eyes every now and then. And especially pisstakes, especially. Anybody but Occy.
CP, back to him, has his favourite shot on the wall of his shop, it’s called whirl or something and from what we’ve learnt he dropped his Canon Powershot into the shorebreak at Seven Mile the other day and trod on it, right onto the pic trigger – presto fantistico!, pic of the century.
Up on his wall. Modestly priced.
There’s a train of constant comment up here in the burning season, where the land rises up into the Nightcap Ranges, that when Warning blew up it rained showers of boulders down on the rivers country for about an hour. The air that day would have been darkened by the flying rock, penetrating air heated to plasma. Then, when they all finally came down rounded by the force of the air on their hot trajectories, they slammed into the earth and sea so hard that the horizon would almost have fractured from the hundreds of thousand of heavy impacts. The seawater would have bubbled with shot and burning.
Boil pebbles in a glass bowl. Then stick your face in there with your eyes open.
pic by craig parry, I asked him for an ok; still waiting.