#350, Tucson, AZ
After this past week, I keep thinking that I'm done with Tuscon, but it would appear that Tucson is not quite done with me.
One of the pleasures of photographing numbers is the sort of reverse tourism it lets me indulge in. Instead of reading about places in a guide book and then seeking them out, I seek out the places first and then look -- often times long after I've returned home -- to see if I can make any sense out of what I've just captured. In this case, the 350 marks the home of Che's, a bar and music venue on the stretch of 4th Avenue. While Che's claims to be a jewel in the crown of this surreal desert outpost, it's surely not as culturally significant than the tiki bar where we played in a hundred degree heat to a crowd of three fans -- including that guy in the cabaña hat who kept talking to himself.
An online travel guide where I sought to find more information on the elusive Che's informs me of this: "Whether you prefer bourgeois elegance or nihilistic debauchery, Tucson can provide an evening's entertainment." Where, exactly, would playing accordion in front of a hookah bar fall on that continuum? And can we call this 350 bourgeois, or should we just admit that Tucson is just clutching at adjectives?
What can I say? It happens to the best of us. And with fifteen days left to the 2009 countdown, I'll be clutching at anything that doesn't move and looks like it came from a dictionary.