Felines are territorial beasts, so I am surprised whenever seeing two traversing the same space. Yesterday, we met Skull, and comparing photos you will see Biscuit (my made-up name) stands on the same ledge in […]
Tag: San Diego
The Cats of University Heights: Roly Poly
Meet the second feline featured in this limited series. From Scruffy we go to Roly Poly (real name unknown). He and I first crossed paths on July 8, 2016 at 6:20 p.m. PDT a few meters onto Cleveland Ave. where it meets Monroe. He couldn’t stay still for long—moving from rolling around on the sidewalk to pestering a black cat meowing and growling on the other side of a hedge to lying flat. He preoccupied most of the time tormenting the hidden beast that I occasionally could see behind the brush.
I shot Roly’s portrait, the Featured Image, using iPhone 6s Plus. Vitals: f/2.2, ISO 32, 1/120 sec, 4.15mm.
The Cats of University Heights: Scruffy
I begin a new series that ends when the photos are all used: The Cats of University Heights. The number of feline sightings in my San Diego neighborhood is quite surprising, and I shoot them […]
On This Day
Nine years ago today, my family relocated from the Washington, D.C. suburb of Kensington, Md to San Diego, Calif. Whoa! There is no record in my website archive. Looks like I did little posting in late 2007, which isn’t surprising with the move and trying to continue working. At the time, I operated the Apple Watch and Microsoft Watch blogs. Unbelievably, Ziff Davis enterprise closed down both after laying me off in April 2009. That’s why I warned two years ago: “Writers, Own Your Content!”
I don’t feel like the same human being, after predominately cutting carbs from my diet starting three years ago. Wearing pajamas, I weighed about 91 kilograms (200 pounds) on Oct. 15, 2007; 57 kg (125 lbs) today. My physical build is more like age 20—as is my remarkable energy. Granted, I look every bit of my 57 years and don’t pretend to be otherwise or cling to some misbegotten attempt at reclaiming youth. I’m merely a happy, healthier middle-ager.
Red Shirts Mark My Comic-Con Blues
I won’t attend all, or even most, of San Diego Comic-Con as planned this week. SDCC is the only event I look forward to all year. But an opportunity came to undergo corrective surgery in one of my eyes (the other follows in a few weeks) sooner than expected. I will be at the Con Wednesday night but not Thursday (gonna be under the scalpel—or is it laser—that day) and probably not Friday (when is the post-op exam). Perhaps the surgeon will okay Sunday and hopefully even Saturday.
My eighth year of attendance is a bust, but I am super fortunate to get July 21st for the surgery. I had looked forward to Star Trek’s 50th year, which will get big celebration throughout the four days and Preview Night—starting with the “Star Trek Beyond” premiere. Given my truncated plans combined with my paying to attend (no press pass), I will go as a participant rather than a documentarian for the first time.
Trump Brings Mayhem to San Diego
The #DumpTrump crowd clashed with the candidate’s supporters here in San Diego this afternoon. Ha! I didn’t know he had come to speak—at the convention center. Trouble started around 4 p.m. local time, following his speech.
I’m more taken back by the police presence than what actually happened. As I write, about two-and-a-half hours later, there are 500 cops in full riot gear and bulletproof vests outside San Diego Convention Center. The area is closed, with an order making it illegal for anyone to remain in the area. Hey, is Trump still around? Run before you get arrested, Donald. 😉
The Man on the Street
This afternoon, while walking along Adams Ave. in Normal Heights, I passed what appeared to be a homeless man sitting on a cement step inside an abandoned storefront doorway. He was grizzled but neat, with the leathery-brown skin hue common among people overexposed to the Southwestern Sun. His hair and beard bled gray all over what might have one time been black.
As I passed, he stopped over, arms resting on knees, alongside a small, black luggage bag with wheels and pulled-out handle. About 5 meters beyond him, my pace slowed. I rarely carry cash but today had a 10 dollar bill, which is more money than I usually give—and he had asked for none. I turned around and walked back, finding him up and moving. We passed. I hesitated once more then spun back and spoke.
A Taste of Maine in San Diego
My wife and I walk around Liberty Station, in San Diego’s Point Loma neighborhood during some weekends, because the open pavilion with dirt paths around grassy center reminds us of the National Mall, Washington, D.C. The arts, entertainment, and shopping facility feels oddly constructed, for it is. The destination was once the Naval Training Center San Diego, and the architecture and vastness between buildings is homage to the heritage.
The military base closed with many others, as part of vast downsizing two decades ago, during Bill Clinton’s presidency (I wonder if his wife won’t wield the closure hatchet yet again, should she be elected later this year). The complex shuttered in 1997, and like many others underwent redevelopment. Something similar happened to Loring Air Force Base, located about 16 km (10 miles) from my hometown in Northern Maine. Loring’s redevelopment was nowhere nearly as successful as the San Diego training center. Location. Location. Location.
Cali Decorates Every Room
A year ago today, my daughter’s stray cat Cali moved into the Wilcox household. I want to know where 12 months went. Whoosh! As I shared last Day of the Dead, the tortoiseshell kitty adopted my daughter soon after she moved into a group house near San Diego State University, where she goes to school. We inherited the furball, after a roommate demanded she go (the girl supposedly had animal allergies).
Cali is a stoutly independent cat. She’s a hunter and would do well on a farm. Our hefty ginger, Neko, and her are a bonded pair now. We hoped they would tolerate one another, because you never know with felines, and they’re friendly enough companions. Any time two territorial cats share space, that’s bonded enough.
Eight Years Later
On this day in 2007, the small Wilcox clan relocated to San Diego—to be closer to my father-in-law, who turns 94 in about two months. We sacrificed much, and gained some, too, by leaving the Washington, D.C area. Daisy, as seen in one of her last romps in our backyard, is among the many things precious we left behind. I still miss that rabbit, which surely has exhausted her lifespan by now.
If I could redo any part of my life, we would stay somewhere around Washington and never move out West. The community left there, we never really regained here. My daughter’s burgeoning ice skating career collapsed with the loss of coach and friends. While she found other mates at San Diego High School and San Diego State University, she left behind more—as did my wife Annie and I.
Gimme Google Fiber, San Diego!
Please take my money, Google. Tap the vein right here if blood is the currency you need. I am ready, willing, and over-excited. If you disappoint, I understand, though. My city is a brick wall when it comes to new commerce. It’s regulation central. So good luck to you, GF.
This afternoon I received email from the Google Fiber team that stopped my heart: “We wanted you to be among the first to hear the news. Today we announced we’re exploring bringing Fiber to San Diego”. Hell, yeah, baby. Sign me up. Which up-for-reelection-politician needs me and other native and transplanted San Diegans to be thorns in the butt? Give us more speed than we possibly need for prices we probably can’t afford.
Protesting Greenpeace?
The weather is perfect here in San Diego—what my wife and I call a Maine Day: 22 degrees Celsius and breezy. We hauled off to Ocean Beach, where navigating people busking or begging for money takes almost as much talent as negotiating a kayak through rocky rapids. Sure enough, I looked left and missed the approaching, friendly fundraiser from the right. Smack!
The singing circle of happy people distracted me. Oh no! Greenpeace? Again? Just cut an artery why don’t they and bleed me? But this dude—the one holding the yellow sign—had a different pitch. Greenpeace hires for two-week jaunts, he claimed, and those who don’t meet their quotas are dismissed from service. There be women with kids about to lose their livelihood. Yikes! The small cadre raised money against Greenpeace.