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.
I continue to mourn loss of the Wilcox farm—the majority of which my father unexpectedly deeded to the pastors of his church during the last weeks of life. He died on April 16, 2024.
The deeding deed was kept secret from immediate family until after he had passed. I attempted to contact the main pastor—twice. He ignored me. Inaction has shaped, or reshaped, my perspective about the incident, which won’t be publicly shared here.
You may want to rethink that yes, if the answer. We have come to perilous times, where conspiracies make more sense than commonsense. Take, for example, Joseph Biden’s debate debacle with Donald Trump. An astute observer should have seen Biden’s cognitive decline years ago. I am no expert, and it was obvious to me—and plenty of other folks. Now, post-debate, Biden’s brain, and the continuation of his campaign, are the dominant topics seemingly everywhere. But something smells fishy here—and it ain’t good.
The Commission on Presidential Debates, a nonpartisan organization, is responsible for organizing the face-off between candidates, which typically starts some time following each respective political party’s convention. CPD had scheduled four debates, with the first slated for Sept. 16, 2024, at Texas State University in San Marcos. In a statement, the organization explains that it received a “letter dated May 15, 2024 from Jen O’Malley Dillon, Campaign Chair for the Biden-Harris Campaign, in which the Biden-Harris Campaign informed the Commission that President Biden will not agree to debate under the sponsorship of the Commission during the 2024 general election campaign”. The B-H campaign decided to organize its own debates, and Trump agreed to participate.
The Featured Image, taken by an unknown photographer, puts me on a New York City street in either the summer of 1980 or `81—I don’t recall which. That would make me 21 or 22 years-old, with hair!
Good friend Andy Morris looks on. My recollection of him is his infectious, and friendly, smile. Where is it, Andy? Was I that boring? Looking at how stiff I appear to be, maybe I wasn’t so good a street preacher.
The month ends, and we close the first half of the year, with the one-hundred-third kitty seen along Alabama Street, somewhere between boundaries Adams and Lincoln, since the series‘ start in October 2016. My wife and I came upon this fine feline on June 15, 2024.
I used Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra to capture the Featured Image and companion. Vitals: f/3.4, ISO 50, 1/125 sec, (synthetic) 230mm (digital and optical zoom); 10:34 a.m. PDT. The other is same but ISO 40, one-minute earlier.
As I write, the first Presidential debate, between presumptive candidates Joseph Biden and Donald Trump, is underway. For now, my intention is not to watch. Later, I will start with clips and possibly peek at a recorded version through which I can fast-forward and pause. The live event promises to be pure poison.
Or stated differently: Various manifestations of elder abuse. Seriously? You ask. Yes, Biden for his sheer presence and demand to stand and be mentally present for 90 minutes or so. Trump, for the abrasive handling by the hostile CNN moderators.
