In the alley behind Alabama, but clearly living opposite off of Florida, a tabby waited next to a fence on Aug. 16, 2022. She approached and passed, more disturbed by my pulling out iPhone 13 Pro than interested in visiting me. Some kitties are attention-seekers; not this one.
The Featured Image captures the first sighting and the companion going by to the apartment building where she presumably lives. Vitals: f/2.8, ISO 32, 1/255 sec, 77mm; 9:47 a.m. PDT. The other is same but 1/99 sec.
Before SARS-CoV-2 (severe acute respiratory syndrome Coronavirus 2)/COVID-19 lockdowns temporarily closed San Diego Zoo and precipitated price increases, my wife and I frequently walked about there. Those days are gone.
But remembering is good. On Aug. 15, 2019, when I captured the Featured Image, the economy was robust, inflation nominal, interest rates low, and Donald Trump the unbeatable candidate for the 2020 Presidential Election. Wow, three years ago feels like decades passed—measured by how much is upended. Global recession advances. Inflation roars. Interest rates rise. And the gaffe-prone Joe Biden is president (and the nation’s, ah, senile grandpa). Oh, yeah, who could forget the Russian-Ukraine war, U.S.-China tensions about Taiwan, or famine affecting millions of people.
When BLVD North Park—located in University Heights, by the way—started taking applications in summer 2019, projected rents ranged from $1,970 to $4,500. Fast-forward three years, and you might as well start selling off organs to pay for the astronomical increases locally. According to Rent.com: “The average rent for apartments in San Diego, Calif., is between $2,379 and $5,205 in 2022″—for studio and three-bedroom, respectively. One bed: $2,889, up from $2,300 in mid-2019. Two: $3,778, up from $2,823 during the same time period.
Maybe prospective renters should feel good about BLVD North Park, which rates aren’t monumentally pumped up—being already lofty before dramatic increases across the region. An 831-square-foot two beds and baths goes for $3,700, according to a listing on Trulia. That’s within the range that I recall—rightly, hopefully—when the BLVD property opened to residents.
My distain for traffic circles rises in the aftermath of an accident overnight that damaged four vehicles—leaving one, perhaps two, as total losses. The Mazda that dominates the Featured Image suffered the most damage. Impact pushed the car partially onto the sidewalk.
The crash occurred about 2 a.m. PDT—so loudly that my wife heard, and we aren’t exactly close by. But some neighbors who were woke from sleep and investigated. Based on their reports, the driver didn’t flee (and I can’t say that he could have, since no one revealed to me the condition of his car). He waited for first responders, including police, who may have arrested him for suspicion of driving under the influence of something.
We turn back the clock to the early days of SARS-CoV-2 (severe acute respiratory syndrome Coronavirus 2)/COVID-19 lockdowns—to when flatten-the-curve meant about two weeks of home confinement and business closures. Instead, some states served up seemingly never-ending mandates; yes, California among them.
The Featured Image is a reminder and portender of future events, should food shortages become commonplace. What interests me here, though, when reviewing my archive tonight, is the juxtaposition of free lemons set inside a Beyond Burger box.
I do not drink alcoholic beverages and can count on one hand the few occasions of inebriation as a teenager, when booze experimentation started and stopped. My taste for the stuff is yuck, and I prefer being clear-headed, which was a big advantage during my working reporter days. People who have had a few too many, as they say, are carelessly chatty; loose lips reveal too much to sober ears like mine.
That said, I always felt uneasy being the only non-drinker in the room—like everyone looked at me oddly. Because when everyone else boozes and you don’t, the presumption is that you must be a recovering alcoholic. That’s how, ah, tippled is America’s cultural heritage. Sobriety is abnormal.
This tabby quite possibly no longer lives in the neighborhood, but its caretaker does—and that’s reason enough to share this long-overlooked putty, which is the one-hundredth presented behind either window or door.
I used Leica Q to capture the Featured Image on April 28, 2018. Vitals, aperture and shutter speed manually set: f/1.7, ISO 100, 1/250 sec, 28mm; 7:11 p.m. PDT, which was 18 minutes before sunset.
From Sept. 22, 2020, the outdoor patio of El Zarape beckons for customers during SARS-CoV-2 (severe acute respiratory syndrome Coronavirus 2)/COVID-19 lockdowns. I used iPhone XS to capture the Featured Image. Vitals: f/1.8, ISO 25, 1/2611 sec, 26mm; 10:30 a.m. PDT.
The Eatery is along Adams Avenue at the edge of San Diego neighborhood Normal Heights. Vantage is 32nd Street.
Date unknown, but sometime in the 1970s during my early teenage years, my cousin pats a freshly-made snowman while I watch. I would like to thank Dan for emailing the Featured Image. The photographer likely was one of our dads. Camera is anyone’s guess but I will make one: Kowa—likely the seT R2. Leaf shutter! In the interchangeable lenses!
Snow is a constant during Northern Maine winters—as much today as 50 years ago, if not more so. Average annual snowfall at the National Weather Station in Caribou is 278 cm (109 inches). An April 29, 2022 analysis by Emily Jerkins, St. John Valley Times, appearing in the Bangor Daily News, affirms: “Maine is snowier than Alaska thanks to Aroostook County“.
A few days ago, I happened upon the owner of Bruce, Guido, and Little as she walked dog Apple—and two of the tabbies trailed along, as they so often do. She had a frightening tale to tell me. The previous week, someone started to relentlessly pound on her apartment door when she, unfortunately, was showering. She got out of the water quick as she could, all while the banging continued nonstop. The front door opened to an anxious neighbor warning something bad happened to Bruce.
He and Guido had been curled up on the property, towards the back nearby the fence. Some guy walking a dog let it get close to the cats. Suddenly, somewhat unsteady being apparently inebriated, he tripped, which lengthened the leash’s reach—allowing the dog to advance on Bruce, grab him by head and shoulder, and thrash him about the way a canine might one of those stupid plush toys.
Tonight I contemplate the polarized, partisan divide about voting, enlightened by an experience while shopping during late-afternoon. I had gone to Costco for kitty litter, which cost $2.30 more for 42 pounds than a few months ago. At least the manufacturer raised prices without shrinking size—surely such action is inevitable.
As I approached self-checkout, a new procedure greeted. An employee asked each customer to show the back of his or her Costco card—for photo identification. In some instances, the staffer also asked to see a driver’s license. I inquired why, when making my presentation. Answer: To prevent people from using someone else’s membership, which is not free ($60 to $120 annually).
Today, my wife and I drove North to Del Mar for lunch with an old friend and coworker, who had flown out from the East Coast to visit her son and his family—newcomers to San Diego County for work (he’s a banker, which I guess explains the ease of managing the high rents).
The stories people tell that you wouldn’t imagine but seem so sensible after the surprise permeates. Our friend made a startling discovery when unpacking upon arrival: She had mistaken dental floss for her Apple AirPods, which case would be about the same size and shape as some brands (glad to know she makes tooth-care a priority). But couldn’t the confusion also be nothing more than one of those, ah, senior moments?