camera tossing


Cool long exposure shots. First one glowsticks dropped in water, second one is a brdige and lights of cars passing by, third one is fireflies just before dark, 4th milky way as the earth turns, the fifth is actually a plane taking off, the six one is just awesome. Lol look at that snail go xD

That’s the thing about the Strokes. We always want them to be something more than they probably are. These dudes […] were The Band Here To Save Rock ‘N’ Roll from the get-go. In one of the greatest smartass moves ever pulled, they famously named their debut album Is This It as a way to own the hype. People have always loved the Strokes—some of whom have probably never even heard a Strokes song. The Strokes are rock 'n’ roll, whatever we perceive to be “rock 'n’ roll." Is This It is widely-considered to be one of the greatest records of all time. But last night (no pun intended) was the first time I’ve ever seen them perform live, and it was everything. - Noisey

Yet, while the Strokes are undoubtedly for lovers, they’re also for rockers at heart; it took all my restraint not to toss my camera gear aside and charge into one of the many mosh pits that erupted during the show-closing adrenaline shot of “Last Nite” and the walloping one-punch encore “New York City Cops”. What a splendid homage to this city by one of its most stellar contemporary acts. - Consequence of Sound

The Strokes were greeted like kings when they walked onstage on Saturday evening for their first New York City show in three years. […] Blasted from the main-stage speakers, latter-day cuts like "One Way Trigger” and “Machu Piccu” felt very much akin to such well-worn standards as “Hard to Explain” and “Reptilia,” as if the second half of the Strokes’ career has been thought-out much more than anyone believed previously. Their performance was a master class in the victory lap, done with ease in front of thousands of devotees. - Spin


Camera Tossing: Inspired by DigitalRev, since the release of the video tutorial about camera tossing, I have been doing it on and off. Camera tossing is actually a rare genre and hard to master genre, I think I got the balancing between the camera and the lens right, I may be one of the best camera tosser out there, because there aren’t many people out there doing it. The reasons are, the practitioner could potentially loss his camera, the camera is possible to land on someone else’s head, hard to get the balancing, the tossing and the catching right.

# My camera tossing album on Flickr @

# Camera tossing video by DigitalRev @

imagine hongbin as the school’s biggest nerd but when hes at home he gets out a camera, tosses his glasses away, and ruffles his hair to take well-filtered photographs of himself and other various creatures in flower crowns for his tumblr blog. also imagine ken as the big class clown who worships naruto but is also secretly hipster trash and checks out hongbin’s blog 24/7 for his garden cat aesthetics.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
And the highwayman came riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,  
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.  
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
        His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.  
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
        Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.  
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,  
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
        The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  
Then look for me by moonlight,
        Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;  
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
        (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;  
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,  
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,  
A red-coat troop came marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.  
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!  
There was death at every window;
        And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
        Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!  
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
        Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.  
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.  
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;  
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
        Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;  
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!  
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,  
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
        Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood  
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!  
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear  
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
        The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
        Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
A highwayman comes riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.  
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
        Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

—  The Highwayman, Alfred Noyes