Should I Have Some Fun (or Are Those Sour Grapes)?

It was bedtime, my bedtime, anyway.  Studies tell us. . . .  I like going to bed early, and it is healthy to have a regular bedtime.  And so, usually I am tired and ready for bed at the appropriate hour.  But there are nights. . . .  Last night, I guess I had been drinking.  It was bedtime, so I turned off the television and turned off the lights, but I stopped at the computer in the office just to cook up one picture.  I developed some black and white film a couple days ago and had been scanning it on and off all day Saturday.  I had downloaded some images from a couple digital cameras, too.  Just let me look at what I have before bed, I thought, and I'll pick one to use on the blog tomorrow.

As I imported the files into Lightroom, I got a text.  I turned on a song.  I got interested in the images and started working.  I was awake.  For some reason, I get very creative and happy late at night if I am working on pictures and listening to music.  The two things drive me.

And so, waking up at the usual hour, I am sleepy today.  I will slowly drag my bones from place to place--wait--where the fuck would I be going?  I'll just take a nap or go back to bed after writing this.

But in my state, I think I'm the only one not out and having fun.  The Boulevard was busier than pre-Corona yesterday, no one wearing masks.  The restaurants were crowded.  People were shopping, cavorting in the park, mingling at the Farmer's Market.  They were happy and were laughing.

The result for me is a picture with people in it.  I'd forgotten what people looked like.  I like the way they look.  Some of them.

The rest of the photos you will see in the coming days are of signs and table tops and household objects, many in glorious black and white.  I pick up some processed color film on Monday, too.  It is fun shooting film, clicking the shutter and advancing the film.  It is visceral.  The digital camera can make beautiful things, too, at a much lower cost in time and dollars, but there is never so much of a physical connection.  So. . . back and forth, back and forth.

Oh!  I forgot. . . I almost died a couple days ago.  Heart attack.  It was Friday, the day I picnicked with my mother.  I had forgotten to get drinks, so I drove up to the mini-mart at the end of the street.  I parked my car and walked to the entrance, when--BOOM!--I ran into a group of nearly naked women in red thongs.  My heart stopped.  I haven't seen a nearly naked girl in a very long time, and being unprepared as I was, my knees buckled.  It was a carwash that uses these highly trained technicians to clean the cars of perverts. It was minutes before breath came back into my lungs.  And so, my mind began a-thinking.  Oooo, what a lovely photo op, eh?  I wonder two things--do I have the chutzpah, and would they let me?  I doubt both, but I keep thinking about it.  Americana.  It's just documentary.  If I don't get those photographs, it will all be lost, or worse, done by someone else.  I'm sure it already has been, but I should not be deterred.

No worries.  I don't think I can bring myself to do it anyway.  Or as the old fox said, those grapes are probably sour, anyway.