I fell asleep last night watching little YouTube L.A. neighborhood bits by Anthony "I Hanged Myself" Bourdain. There were a lot of them. He was chauffeured about in a black Range Rover in each of the episodes as he visited populations of Guatemalans and Iranians complaining about the tastes of middle-class America and railing against hipsters. Oh, Anthony. Be still my heart.
Yes, I can relate.
I've been looking through my pictures for a while now, and I've decided I like color. I have years of black and white, but I am drawn to yellows and blues and reds. Maybe I don't want that Leica M10 Monochrom after all. I'm pretty sure I am going to buy the new Fuji X100V, though I am also pretty sure I won't use it. And maybe I won't buy it, either. It is a great snapshot/street camera, and I have no one to snap-shoot and the streets are getting dangerous for photographers. Perhaps I would be better off focussing on something else. The "what," however, is driving me crazy. The sort of provocative pictures I like most have fallen out of favor. I could leave the country to photograph, but that sort of cultural exploitation is frowned on now. For the non-polemic photographer, there is little left but garbage and abstract shapes.
If I just wasn't an old white guy. . . . It's just bad ju-ju, especially for someone who likes to kick the bucket of snakes to see what happens. It is fun, but it doesn't help you win a congeniality contest.
I have been very lazy in retirement. My cleaning and straightening project has hit the wall. I am like the joke that asks how many retired people it takes to change a lightbulb. One, but it takes a long time. The days are long and I do little. Today a friend stopped by just as I was leaving the house with my camera. He sat on my deck for almost two hours telling tales. Other than the gym and a little straightening up around the house, that was my day.
Tonight will likely be a repeat of last night. I am lucky, I am told. I have it made. Me and Anthony Bourdain.
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