Film and processing turned out to be kind of expensive, so I've had to hold off on buying more for a while. I stretched out the last roll for a while, but eventually it ran out—I got my pictures back from the lab today. This one was from a walk around the neighborhood a couple of weeks ago.

Lately I've been really drawn to more minimalist images. Just lines, textures, shadows, curves, a pure aesthetic that doesn't really have a deeper meaning or tell a story. Except that everything tells a story. A patched crack in an asphalt road, cracked again right through the patch. A story of age and wear and, I suppose, futility. But there's no context; this could be anywhere.

Truth be told, it's cracks like that that are one of the biggest reasons we want to move out of our neighborhood. But that's a different story.

A little archive diving today.  This is where we got Jason's last birthday cake.  They've apparently been making delicious cakes for 30 years now.  I have no idea how long they've had the weird chef statue.

It's a bit of a cliche, but I like taking pictures of people taking pictures of people.

I wondered, as I was walking past the man in the bow tie, what his tickets were for. A concert, I suppose, or maybe a comedy or magic show. But I didn't stop to ask, I broke my stride only long enough to snap this picture. He noticed me, then looked away when it was clear I wasn't stopping to inquire. Then I moved on, toward the barbecue booth a short ways down where Juliette and her sister had decided we'd eat. I suppose he went on standing there.

I noticed this guy wearing an orange shirt while I was at the fair. He noticed me noticing him. Now I can't see anything else when I look at this picture, even though there's a lot going on all around.

My birthday was on Saturday, so we took the occasion to take the kids to the fair, along with Juliette's sister Noelle and brother-in-law Ricardo. It was our first time going to the fair in five or six years—the first time ever for Ricardo and the kids—and both Juliette and I noticed how much more crowded it was than we remembered. None of us were quite sure why, though I suspect it had something to do with the economy and the cheap price of entry compared to the local amusement parks.

I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting that afternoon, but it wasn't a corral full of people getting makeovers from sailors, next to a stage where other, more scantily clad sailors were tap-dancing. I'm not sure if the DJ was expecting to have his picture taken by a shlubby-looking guy in worn-out jeans and scuffed New Balance sneakers, but I guess it was a day of surprises for everyone.

I still remember the excitement I felt as a kid when the chiming notes of "The Entertainer" would waft in through my bedroom window at my dad's house. It's funny, I probably only ever actually bought anything from an ice cream truck a handful of times, yet the memory of that song and that bedroom and that feeling remain in my mind. Much more than the actual treats, and certainly much more than the people driving the trucks, who were probably at least as bored as "Tammy" here.

Juliette doesn't have these memories, growing up out in the sticks as she did. Even my town, where I grew up with my mom, was too small and rural for ice cream trucks—I only ever heard them on the weekends my brother and I spent at our dad's. But now I live in a city, on a normal suburban block, and I see an ice cream truck go by every couple of days. I wonder what my own kids will think about that, thirty years from now.

I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

On this side of the canyon the pavement is cracked and some of the yards are overgrown. The roofs aren't all the same color, though; I kind of like that.