We’re having a scaled-down Day of the Dead this year due to the Kung Flu hysteria. Normally, there’s a massive artisan market installed all around our big, downtown plaza, but not this go-around. Instead of the market, they installed this decoration, which is cordoned off, appropriately, with crime-scene tape.
To stand where those people are, you enter from the right, way over there, after having your temperature checked and a glob of anti-bacterial gel dumped on your hands, no matter that the virus is not bacteria. This year, all good sense has sailed out the window.
I took the photo yesterday.
This morning, I trimmed some bushes, raked up some crap, found a dead bird, tossed him into the trash, and picked up rotting, mystery fruit that falls from the neighbors’ tree that they have growing directly against my property wall. Yes, my wall, not theirs.
Later, I ascended to my roof via the circular stairway atop the dining room to check on something to do with the defective solar water heater and, while up there, I noticed the sex motel next door was drying sheets, towels and blankets. Directly on the floor.
I’ve noticed this many times over the years, but I’ve never photographed it. The sex motel has two or three giant washers in a room that sits on the backside of the roof, but what it lacks is even one dryer or a clothesline, which I guess would look low-brow.
So, flat on the roof they go. Nobody knows but me.