Tag: urban photography

Photo by Joe WilcoxNov 12, 202410:03 pm

I Vote for a Peaceful Transition

This day last week, America voted—and the results surprised many folks. For starters, we had a decisive winner before the cock crowed on the East Coast and before the midnight oil burned here on the West. Secondly, contrary to what many pollsters forecast, the contest was nothing close to neck-and-neck. Thirdly, Donald Trump trounced Kamala Harris—in the final count taking 312 electoral votes (270 to win), capturing majority of the popular vote (50.2 percent; 75.492 million), and taking all seven swing states.

Reaction is something to see. The President-elect’s supporters are giddy as kiddies on Christmas morning. Presents are open, wrapping paper is everywhere, and Santa delivered all the goodies on the list. Elsewhere, trauma is the drama. It’s criminal that left-leaning news organizations and pollsters misled so many Democrats and other Harris supporters for so long. Their mourning wouldn’t be so severe (out of politeness, I won’t link to any reactions but you can find them easily enough on TikTok).

Living by Joe WilcoxNov 5, 20247:25 am

It’s Election Day!

The most consequential Presidential contest in generations comes to a conclusion today, as anyone who didn’t vote early goes to the polls to cast his or her ballot.

The intrigue so is palatable, we could all be living a scripted movie. Consider the circumstances that removed Joe Biden as Democrats’ chosen candidate and propelled Kamala Harris to replace him—or the nearly successful assassination attempt of Donald Trump around the same time. What’s that saying about conspiracies and coincidences?

Photo by Joe WilcoxNov 2, 20249:56 pm

Stop the Bleed

This morning, we drove 56 km (35 miles) to Ramona, where I received trauma training meant to Stop the Bleed when injury severs an artery. The official, instructor-led class lasted about 90 minutes. Kit Fox Outfitters’ co-owner provided hands-on learning as part of the curriculum.

I will practice the techniques taught today so that they become muscle memory. Familiarity could make the difference between life and death in the event of a bleeding emergency, where seconds matter and being flustered and slow-moving is unacceptable. Practice makes perfect, as they say.

Living by Joe WilcoxOct 31, 20249:26 pm

The Incident on Halloween

The two photos have absolutely nothing to do with the content of this post—other than timing: Halloween. I had already planned to use them, and nothing better is available for appropriate illustration.

For many adults and kids looking for a good candy haul or costume party, the day is trick rather than treat. Fast-moving canyon brushfire erupted, around 1:40 p.m. PDT today in College Area, which is a neighborhood that includes San Diego State University.

Photo by Joe WilcoxOct 15, 202411:02 pm

San Diego is Scary Now

Seventeen years ago today, the Wilcox family relocated to San Diego from the Washington, DC-metro area. We came to care for my father-in-law, who would live another decade and pass away—age 95—in his own bed. He likely would have gone sooner and/or been confined to a nursing home otherwise.

My wife and I should have fled Communist California—and the slave mentality induced here—in 2017, soon after her dad died. But ongoing concerns about our only child kept us here longer. Our daughter’s brain injury, in March 2023, justified the financial hardship of staying. She survived—something unlikely had we, from a long distance, taken doctors’ advice to end life support rather than by being present choose to continue it.

Photo by Joe WilcoxOct 13, 20247:55 pm

To Think You Worry About Illegal Alien Criminals

The sign in the Featured Image speaks for itself: There are other risks around the canyons of San Diego—perhaps more worrisome than foreign troublemakers hiding in them and coming out to assault, rob, or murder the locales. My SoCal county is one of the throughways by which illegals cross into the United States, and they are frequent enough topic on the local news or social media to scare some residents.

But coyotes—and I don’t mean smugglers sneaking immigrants across the border—present problems you might not consider. Sure, residents should keep cats and smaller dogs inside, but these coyotes could carry dynamite or drop anvils from hot-air balloons. Drones are a pitting nuisance, by comparison.

Photo by Joe WilcoxOct 9, 20249:29 pm

Royal but Rustic

This isn’t the first rustic typewriter that I have seen put out for the taking. The vintage is way older than the one that I used as a teenager, but it is the same brand: Royal. I am a poorly, but efficient enough, self-taught typist—starting around age 14 (my handwriting is notoriously sloppy).

My recollection is dim about why I inherited a typewriter, which got plenty of usage. I punched out many poems and song lyrics on the thing; they were lost inside a box of memorabilia sometime in 1989. Advice: Don’t leave something precious in someone else’s garage. Your treasure could be put out as trash.

Photo by Joe WilcoxSep 29, 20249:25 pm

Would You Want to Live Here?

As explained three days ago, apartment landlords are taking away tenant garages and converting them into residential rentals. The practice is rampant across San Diego County, including my neighborhood of University Heights.

Unsurprisingly, the alleys separating streets fill with parked cars, particularly late day into the evening hours. You lost your garage and can’t find a legal space, so you make do and hope to move before the parking police blast by writing tickets.

Photo by Joe WilcoxSep 28, 20249:33 pm

Simply Scary

Some moments are humbling. Today, my wife and I walked across the Spruce Street Suspension Bridge—and not since Spring 2021. I have always been sure-footed, even as the thing wildly swayed. But not today. I was clumsy, dizzy, off-balance, uncertain. I wasn’t prepared for the dramatic, and wildly changed, reaction.

Gasp. We don’t necessarily see the effects of aging, because the diminishing capacity isn’t sudden but result of a long process. I joked with Annie about a what-if: joining a volleyball game and waking in the hospital, following a dig to save the ball. Muscle memory may be there, but not the physical agility or stamina. “Well, Mr. Wilcox, you have a broken arm, three cracked ribs, and a fractured collar bone”.

Photo by Joe WilcoxSep 26, 20249:09 pm

Say Goodbye to Your Garage Parking Space

When we relocated to San Diego nearly 17 years ago, most home garage renovations were illegal—meaning they had been done without proper permits, if any. The stated interior size revealed all: A 600-square-foot cottage would be obviously larger, because of the undocumented, unsanctioned expansion.

Oh, and the buyer inherited any liability. Imagine one consequence, where the city, county, or state issued fines or demanded the whole, ah, illegal project be torn out. For the short time my wife and I considered buying a home here, we stayed clear of such properties.

Photo by Joe WilcoxSep 6, 202410:12 pm

Heatwave Reading

The Summer’s hot days have finally arrived in San Diego. Official high yesterday, according to my phone: 34 Celsius (94 Fahrenheit)—although the thermometer in the apartment complex’s courtyard read 38 C (100 F). Well, all the cement makes quite the heat island, so that is unsurprising.

This morning, the mercury touched 33 C (91 F) before thin, high clouds provided some relief. Forecasted high for tomorrow is about the same and scorching like yesterday for Sunday. We don’t have air conditioning, by the way. Fans provide plenty of relief, as long as breeze outside blows indoors. Unfortunately, winds are light, and air is muggy.

Photo by Joe WilcoxSep 4, 202410:20 pm

When No One Helps You

This morning, as my wife and I waited to cross Mississippi at University Avenue in North Park, we heard arguing and shouting. We both turned back to see some kind of disagreement between a man and woman near the distant bus stop on the opposite side of the street.

The dude looked to be stealing, or trying to steal, the lady’s bicycle. Shirtless, he was clearly homeless; she was well-dressed. Taller than her, he was racially white but so sunburned to be almost black; dirty, my guess, too. We weren’t sure what to do, being older folks, but we decided to walk down the block nevertheless. She needed help.