What do you make of this? Because I’m baffled. On Aug. 2, 2024, my wife and I came upon this classic, British phone both along Madison Avenue in our San Diego neighborhood of University Heights.
As you can see from the Featured Image, the thing rests on the slim median separating sidewalk and street. Payphones are so rarely seen that what a find had this one turned out to be active. It’s just decoration and empty inside.
I wonder what about this plant attracts Japanese Beetles. As my wife and I walked along Georgia Street, in our San Diego neighborhood, my motion stopped and head turned in response to distinctly familiar buzzing. I knew which Coleoptera that was.
But where I expected to see one Japanese Beetle, there were several. Two are visible in the Featured Image—captured using Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra. Vitals: f/2.4, ISO 50, 1/2500 sec, 70mm (film equivalent); 8:56 a.m. PDT, today.
On the block of the same street where fruit falls to waste, another residence is ready to gather the bounty, as you can see from the Featured Image. Yes, the homeowners have placed blankets to catch the apples—something done without worry because rain is rare this time of year.
Exceptions occur, and today is one of them. Thunderstorm is just ending, so those blankies are probably soggy now. But, obviously, they were dry yesterday, when captured by Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra. Vitals: f/1.7, ISO 12, 1/1250 sec, 70mm (film equivalent); 9:46 a.m. PDT.
To say that coastal San Diego is paradise understates the consistently mild climate and the shockingly fertile growing environment. Plant a seed, something will grow—even bearing flowers and/or fruit multiple times during 12 months. Food is aplenty and too often wasted, as the Featured Image indicates.
I came upon the fallen fruit, presumably a variety of apple, today along Louisiana Street in my neighborhood of University Heights. I wondered: Why? Why waste good food, given as a gift of the fantastic climate conditions? There are homeless folks and hungry families all around the area. If you don’t want the bounty, put it out for someone to take. Generosity isn’t any easier than something you have no need for that another person might desperately and gratefully accept.
I am more than a little surprised to be writing this post. But here we unexpectedly are. I stand with those people criticizing the 2024 Olympic Games Opening Ceremony’s mock Last Supper as mocking Christianity—and the almighty God, for that matter. In what appeared to be a live reenactment of the famous painting by Leonardo DaVinci, the actors were either drag queens or some simply dressed as such.
The Summer games officially began in Paris on July 26. Today, spokesperson Anne Descamp apologized to anyone offended by the, ah, banquet scene. If BBC reporting is accurate, explanation is as offensive, if not more. From the story: “The ceremony’s artistic director, Thomas Jolly, said there was no intention to ‘mock or denigrate anyone’ and explained the scene in question was designed to reference pagan gods”.
What a surprise is this! Another Tesla Cybertruck, seen within week’s time, but parked in an alley. The other, a different color, was a drive-by. I mean no disrespect to the owners, but what is the appeal? Futuristic design—like from B-science fiction movies?
Because I swear that the angler, boxy, bulky design is straight out of some filmmaker’s dystopian dream. Look to Blade Runner, Freejack, Timecop, or Total Recall, among others, for influence and as reference.
So-o-o, Samsung offered irresistible incentives that compelled me to preorder Galaxy Watch Ultra as a belated 65th birthday present. Among them: $350 trade-in credit for Watch6 Classic, which is considerably more than I paid in December 2023. Also: Free dark grey Trail Band. What’s not to like?
I can answer: Size. The 47mm watch is ginormous, and the band is eye-scorching fluorescent orange rather than the more subdued mango as appears on the manufacturer’s website and in every reviewer YouTube video that I watched before the thing shipped; strangely, my photos, too. The wristwear arrived late yesterday morning, and my out-of-box reaction was trepidation rather than excitement, opening hours later.
The unexpected encounters on California roads are sometimes surrealistic sci-fi—as was the case today driving down Texas Street and entering I-8. My wife pulled behind a futuristic vehicle that I realized could only be a Tesla Cybertruck. This was my first sighting, here in San Diego.
I got to say that Elon Musk, his designers, or perhaps all, should stop watching shoddy science fiction movies. Pick one: Blade Runner, Freejack, Timecop, or Total Recall—among others. Boxy vehicles with sharp lines are almost stereotypical to the point of being tropes. Now they’re for real? Oh my.
For the first time this month, I hauled down to Old Trolley Barn Park for the third Friday night of summer concerts. Performing this evening: San Diego Funk All Stars. I more or less sauntered through, taking a few quickies using Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra.
I carry Leica Q2 less often than ever and seriously consider selling it. I love the camera, but the smartphone is convenient and the photos are increasingly good enough, particularly as artificial intelligence-enhanced software makes magic happen to most any shot.
We return to the Allagash, Aroostook County, Northern Maine, and the single-cabin camp that my Uncle Glenn rented from one of the timbering companies—for $100 a year, back in the 1970s. He and my father stand near center in the Featured Image, which my cousin presumably captured.
Real outdoorsmen, real hunters. Yeah, there are too many beer guts, but the brothers were nevertheless hearty and strong. My uncle, the bigger and better-natured man, was about nine years older than his jealous, surly sibling. I often wondered how they could ever be blood relations, because dispositions so differed.
Somebody sure seems set on changing up the Democrat and Republican candidates running for President. I am not one to peddle conspiracy theories, but, gosh, there are suspicious activities at work that shouldn’t be ignored when evaluated one against the other.
Early evening, Eastern Daylight Time, Donald Trump survived an assassination attempt by a whisker, as the saying goes, during a campaign rally in Butler, Pa. Watching local news coverage from a TV station in Pittsburgh, I listened to an expert explain that three inches left would have been Trump’s nose, rather than his ear. The gentleman explained that, from the shooting distance, the difference was the slightest shift in the wind.
Now that I am (cough, cough) sixty-five, shock and awe rankle me. I always thought of people this age as being old; ancient, really. Now, here I am—one of them. I don’t feel old, but age is apparent from my reflection in the mirror or when walking outside. What seems like a fast pace to me can’t keep up with that of the younger folks; not even close.
Sometime recently, Ron Howard-directed Cocoon came to be available on one of the streaming services. The film released in summer 1985, and I was 25 at the time. I easily identified with the Twenty- and Thirty-something aliens, and I chuckled at the absurdity of the elderly folks hoping to regain some youthful vitality. Gasp. Now I am their age, and that realization caused eerie, queasy emotions while rewatching Cocoon.