Sunday morning, 0730

Crashing, whirring noises outside, nearby. Bang! Bang! Bang!

I can’t help but be grateful for relatively consistent trash pickup here, and I have great respect for the collectors—male and female—who ride on the back of the trucks as they speed from stop to stop. (And I try to avoid walking dogs off-leash if they’re within a half mile.)

Still, I wonder if the designers, engineers, and manufacturers in Europe took into account the enthusiasm of Latin American operators, who seem to think they’re the wrecking crew from Consumer Reports.

Where the garbage goes

I had a little bout of getting things done the other day. This included a trip to the place the garbage trucks go (10 years ago I also didn’t know what it is called), with a small plastic bag of lithium batteries, a lead acid battery from the defunct alarm system we removed while renovating the casita, a compact fluorescent light bulb, and half a liter of glyphosate, purchased probably 12 years ago when I didn’t realize how nasty that shit is. I didn’t want a liter, but that’s what I ended up with.

Anyway, here’s the rear axle of a garbage truck, resting on a stump, huge brake drum and pads, and a child’s plush toy.

Because of course.