Bring it, and pour a cold one, 09 is just inches away.
Been working the Maya fantastic, and pondering this time I saw a pair of hairy ghost hands down a somewhat stank alley where I was wasting some time with a smoke.
I was kicking it there as I was to meet this curve from the Cat and the Fiddle, and perhaps exchange some notes on the proper way to stimulate specialized nerve endings, but she proved to be a no show, and that’s another story all together.
So, I was lighting my third camel, and had about decided to journey on to my next highball, when I caught a glimpse of some crazy scrubbing kind of action out of the corner of my e-ball.
What said scrubbing action was a bit like, was a big fat sponge gliding across a windshield… Like I saw a wet hand kind of rise up with a big pink soggy sponge of foamy soap water dribbling out, and it kind of arced through the air like it was heading in to dap a big dead moth off the last inch of glass before the roof line.
As I was Jack bird effected by the bright light of the match hooking my smoke, I thought it might be a bit of after burn, but it just kind of hung there, so I zeroed in on the Jack bird sponge clutching hand.
“What a mess,” was the first thought I was struck with, then quickly, “What’s up with your monkey hair hand there, brother?”
The hand holding the sponge was caked with such wads of black hair I have to say it looked more like a bear paw then any thing human, but the fingers where long and thin, and as it squeezed out the foamy water, I had to except that this was a man hand—a man hand of hair.
Scary now set in—there was no man attached to said hand…
Suspicious of my eyes again, I was all, “Hey dude, where did you go?”—thinking asking such a question might make him appear—but no I was alone with this disconnected hand floating around in the alley, washing an invisible car.
Now, this is the part, that moment in every “creepy” story, where the teller says “the Jack bird hair on the back of my neck stood up,” and yeah, that’s what happened, but what’s not relayed often, or I’ve not heard such, or if I have it didn’t register, is the freak “pulsing” you suddenly hear in your head—the way your heart suddenly talks directly to your ear drum—pounding—beating out a Morris code of “run, Forest, run!”
And bring that, that’s what I did—I ran four blocks before I had time for the second “Run” to pipe into my brain.
Strange wet hairy ghost hands… Not very fun to say the least.
So, I made this fly device a good while back.
“Proctodeal gland foam enhances competitive fertilization in domestic Japanese quail...”
This of course is the extractor.
As this is the case, and I’ve Jack bird had to go back into the banks to hook such, I thought it would be killer cool to share here.
And you can get a clear before and after kind of a jack bird vibe.
Have been shaking off a bit of post holiday cob webbing this gray day. Good times were had, but always at a cost.
Woke to some joker of a kid sharing his Christmas day spoils with the world—blowing his nine year old guts out on some marine band harmonica—no melodies, mind you, just a lot of intensely random honks and groans.
Like waking up in an old black and white movie all set in a jail…
What a bunch of Jack bird down in the valley bring it action.
There’s this very awful movie called DOWN IN THE VALLEY, that often awesome Edward Norton stars in…
So, I head this interview with the son of Ernest Hemingway, and he was saying (I’m not a Hemingway fan, by the way, or perhaps I don’t know yet, as I’ve never read him… I recall something about a sward fish getting a hook in his eye, and a bull being killed or some Jack action like that… I don’t go in much for that kind of deal, I dig on the animal world a bit to much blast away at this type of symbolism… but I do eat ham sandwiches)…
At any rate the son of Hem was all saying that his old man dude was always laying it down like this:
If he was referencing his live, in stead of saying, “I’m going to pull down a massive amount of booze in this life,” he would make a point of saying, “I’m going to pull down a massive amount of booze in this one and only life of mine.”
So this Jack bird kicking kick rock star hooked me with the action dope.
He, blasting friend to the common man Jason C, got down with the following related to my gobbling question about “strange spectors” all hinding in the darkest corners of my 3D action.
Check out his spin:
I myself have only recently decided to go tripping down the lane of maya learning, and
many hours have been spent with dusty tomes in search of expanding my much-neglected skills.
Only today did I encounter a possible (shall I say it?) answer to your madness.
While perusing an old copy of the Maya Basics manual, what should accost my eyes but “Templated objects appear slightly dimmed. You cannot select or snap to templated objects.”
After the words sunk in to the old ether-space between the ears, what should spring to mind but said bastard “shadow”.
And a bit later he got down on the following:
Make an object unselectable (template)
“Template" an object so it can’t be selected.
Select the objects you want to template and choose Display > Object Display > Template.
Make a template object selectable again.
Use the hypergraph or outliner to select the templated node and choose Display >Object Display > Untemplate Templated nodes have a different color in the hypergraph.
Select a templated object.
Use the hypergraph or outliner to select the templated node.
Bring that and pour a cold one.
As to my hats off to said Jason C. I’ll have to post a bit of Jack soon.
you have a cool style dude, but honestly, you make no sense, hows anyone ever gona take you seriously if they don’t understand you. i’m hoping this is just how you talk on the internet and this is like an alter ego of yours. anyway, keep posting the pics, maybe just leave out the dialog from now, its actually really fustrating, because i just don’t get what your on about
3Ds Max 2012+PU12+SAP / 2013+PU6, Vray 2.4, Photoshop CS6
OS - Windows 7 Pro x64 Sp1
sys1: i7 2600k (OC to 4.2GHz), 16GB 1600mhz DDR3 Ram, MSI GTX 580 (3GB) (314.22), OCZ agility 3 240GB SSD, Wacom Intuos 3
sys2: i7 2600k (OC to 4.2GHz), 16GB…
Freak me out with your donkey box action, you’ve inspired me.
When I was young, I was hitting on this girl who still lived with her folks on a farm (at that time, her dad was a freak jerk, he never took his eye off me, but he ended up being cool later on when my interest in his daughter had fizzled—we bumped into each other at a wedding and totally pounded cocktails. He was a Copenhagen man, always had a lip full, and when he grinned it looked like his teeth were carved out of cork or something soft and pitted like that), anyway, this girls name was Irma, and we snuck out a few times and went skinny dipping at the lake (her rotten mouth dad kept a big ladder in the back of the barn, so I’d only have to drag the hog thirty feet or so, then tip it up to her window).
So, we where messing around in the water and I felt something with my foot, just under the sand. When I pulled it up, it was this old pistol (a lot like the one I’ve modeled). The cylinder was missing and it had been pounded against a rock or something until the trigger guard was all bent and screwed up. It must have been there a long ass time, the sucker was totally rusted (the thing really freaked out Irma, which ended up being awesome).
Anyway, the next day I let it dry out in the sun on the hood of my car (a funky 66 New Yorker I was driving at the time - great for the drive in, huge front seat with no arm rests—why do all cars have arm rests now? I drive this green pick up these days and when I have to go a good long distance, to party down South or something, my arm always goes to sleep). Anyway, when the gun dried, I tried to scrape off some of the rust, but the thing just stunk—I mean the handle or the rust, or what the hell, it just smelled awful.
Now, this is where it gets weird, the next time I went over to Irma’s place (her mom made killer pie, green apple with cheese - awesome), I had the thing in the car, and old grunt mouth pops is watching the ball game, when he turns to me and says, “Irma tells me you found a smelly gun, mind if I take a look at it, I think it might be haunted.” Now, I’ve heard some very strange stuff, but who’s ever heard of a haunted gun? Well, I was still trying to make time with the dudes daughter and I didn’t want to get him any more angry at me then he always seemed to be, so I said “well, you might want to come out to the car, don’t think you want it stinking up the kitchen, it mingles with pie, it might be lethal.” So, he popped up from the lazy boy and we stepped out.
By the time we got out to the New Yorker, this guy was babbling out of control, he kept telling me I needed to go to the cops or something, perhaps there had been a shooting. And the smell, he went on, was some kind of residual evil or some crazy nonsense. I just kept thinking of Irma in that yellow two piece, and nodding. So, I swung open the door, reached under the seat—nothing. The gun was totally gone.
The old man got beet red and mad like a hornet, made me look under both sides of the seat, just went off. He actually kicked my car. Dump jerk. Anyway, my guess is that Irma took it, snuck out while I was munching pie, and made it her own. Or maybe it flipped over to another dimension or something—it did have a very strange oder.