In an industrial neighborhood of San Diego there is a lonely, forgotten lot guarded by nothing more than a chain-link fence. Little remains of the establishment that reigned here once, or of the painted ladies who once graced its stage.
Stiletto heels protrude from the seared earth like tawdry tombstones. Sunlight glints off a garden of broken mirrors and scattered rhinestones. Sparkling appari-tions flit about in the breeze. They are specters of the dancers who have been scat-tered like some lost tribe of Babylon.
Amid the rubble one thing remains intact: a blue sequined mask.