Before I write any other blather, I have a bulletin. I just ate the best peach I have ever put in my mouth, fresh from the farmer’s market and sweet in that sticky wonderfulness that makes you overlook a peach’s, well, peach fuzz.

Also, a prayer for Tammy Faye to rest in peace. I don’t know about all the heaven and hell, Jesus stuff, but she had a sense of humor and earthiness that more uber-Christian TV evangelists should adopt.

Dancing with Ron Jeremy. Priceless.

I may have become thoroughly sated for a bit on street fairs. Although, my appetite is vast. Two days a scant half mile from our home is pretty fucking sweet, though. We can hear the music from the concert space in the park on our balcony.

Here’s some of my photos of the big day yesterday, which ended with a concert in the park by a cover band.

M. seemed quite enamored of this performers musical prowess.

You know what you get when you mix affluence, high end street fairing, maybe some wine and beer (served in actual souvenir glasses, made of glass) and cover songs from the 60s, 70s and 80s?

Y M C A!

Here M. sings along with “Sweet Home Alabama.” I’m not lying. Beating inside his outwardly melanin rich person is a whiter than white redneck.

I was actually, and unusually for me, digging watching happy people having fun. Even when M. claimed concern that I was photographing strange children.

These are the kind of folks I think you only see in California. Seriously. The hair, the accessorizing, it’s how the west was won.

Then, there’s this guy. I decided to hate him. I mean how can you not? You just know he’d want hassle Ponyboy and Johnny.

Finally, here’s a reality check. I am neither this obese or lesbian-leaning.