It’s practically impossible to buy a cell phone without a camera. Yet most of the pictures I take with mine are forgotten before the next phone call.
The other night, over for dinner at some friends’ home, Matt completely obliterated the blueberry waffles (he switched to pancakes). It was such a failure, I snapped a low-quality picture to remember the moment for the next five minutes by.
Which led me to look at other pictures, taken and promptly forgotten, on my phone. This one, of a book titled Dead Meat, was taken and sent by Emily, who has written some nice things about the urban chicken movement in Salem, Ore.
There were several pictures from last summer’s visit to Hog Heaven, a barbecue joint in Nashville, Tenn., I ate at on the way back from my stint at a dying newspaper in Florida. The place is just a few picnic tables in a screened porch. The barbecue is delicious.
The pig painted on the wall fits so perfectly with the nearby Parthenon. No, really, there’s a full-size Parthenon.
And then there’s this. Taken at a Publix supermarket in Tampa, Fla., on, I believe, my first afternoon in town. I knew at that moment that Florida was much, much odder more racist than I had even suspected.
