The quantity of meat is staggering.

Two weekends in a row I've watched the pork delivery guys hoist one or two half carcasses to their shoulders, stagger down the street from their trucks - that are stacked floor to ceiling with pork halves - to the butcher shops where, invariably, they're shouted at and directed here and there. The butchers are all Chinese, and the delivery guys look to be Mexican, and I haven't paid enough attention with my ears to figure out who's saying what and in which language.

And there I am, a nosy fuck, standing there with my camera, peering into the backs of trucks and into boxes of vegetables. Everyone acts a little nervous and I get a lot of quick glances, like perhaps I'm there, at long last, in response to a call from the health inspectors. No one says anything to me.

"I'm just here for the light!" I think to myself.