I
started this day thinking about the things I really like.
Some are obvious. Some less so.
There’s photography. Art. Design. Color. There’s baseball. The New York Yankees. F1 Motorsports. Music of all genres. Live music. Recorded music. There is travel. Other countries. Southeast Asia. Hong Kong. China. The American Southwest. Virginia. Even New Orleans.
You’d think this would be enough. You’d be wrong.
I started reading about people who just recently passed. David Roback, a guitar player who founded the East Los Angeles band, Mazzy Star with Hope Sandoval, my secret crush. Cancer.
Chris Owens, a legendary Bourbon Street performer who hosted the French Quarter Easter Parade. She didn’t look it, but she must have been ancient having opened her club in 1957. Sheesh, the club is four years younger than me.
Tommy Davis, a Los Angeles Dodger centerfield who I grew up watching. He was 83.
I’m not terribly sad but I find myself looking at the clock finding myself trying to do more of what I enjoy and less of what I have to do. I find myself less willing to put up with BS. I keep calling out wannabe photographers who take the same picture over and over.
One of them tried to turn the tables on me by asking to see my work. My succinct reply was, “Google me.” I haven’t heard his reply. I doubt that there will be one.
I don’t have time for this nonsense. I watch Grand Tour and Top Gear before that. The main presenter, Jeremy Clarkson has come up with the number of hours he has left to live.
I don’t know why.
I reckon by following his formula I have 105,120 hours left if I make it to 80. That doesn’t seem like much, does it?
No time to waste. Not now. Now ever.
I found this house buried in the bowels of Central City. It’s not exactly a ruin, but it comes close.
And, it’s blue.
STORYTELLER 
Leave a Reply