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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]M[/dropcap]ost people associate grace with the concept of God. I, meanwhile, associate it with a parking garage exhaust fan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Let me explain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two blocks from my house in downtown Santa Rosa is a big, ugly, concrete parking garage. I walk past it regularly. At about eye level, sticking out of the big, ugly parking garage, is an exhaust fan, running constantly, 24 hours a day. I keep tabs on it, like an old friend. Has it been tagged or stickered? Is it running noisy? Worrisome of all, is it not running at all? \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This year, my connection to the fan grew. I even started “kissing” it, by kissing my palm and touching it, each time I pass. I’ve ascribed importance to this act, which is not affection so much as penitence. The fan represents, to me, patience, mercy and, yes, grace, based on something that happened long ago. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ll make this quick, but the long and short of it is that I was an irrepressible teenage hooligan. One night, with a girl I loved, I lugged fabric and paint to the top of the parking garage. We painted the downtown nighttime skyline: she Kinko’s, and me Rosenberg’s, a shuttered department store. We also painted all over the parking garage walls, and on the way across the street to wash our hands in the Kinko’s bathroom, made even more of a mess in the stairwell with our paint-covered hands. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we returned, a security guard had arrived, sizing up at our work. Another pulled up in a truck. We did what we’d done many times before, for far worse offenses: we bolted. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13968719,arts_13969423']Our paintings were not good, but they were \u003cem>ours\u003c/em>. And after a few days I began to want them back. So I wrote a letter to the Santa Rosa Parking Division, fessed up to what I was sure would be a vandalism charge, and explained that, if they still had the paintings, I’d accept any fine or misdemeanor if I could get them back. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A couple days later, the phone rang. A man named Dave asked me to come down to the parking office. The one with the exhaust fan sticking out of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Here’s what I’ll do,” he said. “You take this white paint and brush, and cover up as much as you can on the walls. Our guys will take care of the asphalt. And I’ll let you take your paintings. No cops.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So that’s what I did. That painting of Rosenberg’s hung in every room I lived for years afterward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dave didn’t have to extend this break to me. Hell, he could have thrown the paintings in the dumpster long before I wrote to him. That’s what I probably would have done. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But this small, simple act has stuck with me. And over the course of this year, and its election cycle, full of anger, resentment and acrimony, the impression of this small act of grace only grew. You do not need me to tell you how easy it is to hate, or how our modern world’s tools exacerbate the impulse to rip into others. What’s more elusive is the value in simply treating someone as you’d want to be treated, and man, do we ever need to be reminded of it. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I don’t have the painting anymore, and don’t even remember why. But I do have the fan, this talisman of a stranger’s good heart, and a forever unreached ideal. Just like all of us, it’s a little damaged, with dents and squeaks. Its whirring axle, over time, has forged a hole in the metal casing. Sometimes it breaks down completely, and needs the help of others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But mostly, each time I walk by and touch it, the fan reminds me to be patient, kind, and merciful to other people. Not to be all holding-hands-around-the-globe or anything, but that’s something we could all use as this year winds down. \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">M\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ost people associate grace with the concept of God. I, meanwhile, associate it with a parking garage exhaust fan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Let me explain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two blocks from my house in downtown Santa Rosa is a big, ugly, concrete parking garage. I walk past it regularly. At about eye level, sticking out of the big, ugly parking garage, is an exhaust fan, running constantly, 24 hours a day. I keep tabs on it, like an old friend. Has it been tagged or stickered? Is it running noisy? Worrisome of all, is it not running at all? \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This year, my connection to the fan grew. I even started “kissing” it, by kissing my palm and touching it, each time I pass. I’ve ascribed importance to this act, which is not affection so much as penitence. The fan represents, to me, patience, mercy and, yes, grace, based on something that happened long ago. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Our paintings were not good, but they were \u003cem>ours\u003c/em>. And after a few days I began to want them back. So I wrote a letter to the Santa Rosa Parking Division, fessed up to what I was sure would be a vandalism charge, and explained that, if they still had the paintings, I’d accept any fine or misdemeanor if I could get them back. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A couple days later, the phone rang. A man named Dave asked me to come down to the parking office. The one with the exhaust fan sticking out of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Here’s what I’ll do,” he said. “You take this white paint and brush, and cover up as much as you can on the walls. Our guys will take care of the asphalt. And I’ll let you take your paintings. No cops.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So that’s what I did. That painting of Rosenberg’s hung in every room I lived for years afterward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dave didn’t have to extend this break to me. Hell, he could have thrown the paintings in the dumpster long before I wrote to him. That’s what I probably would have done. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But this small, simple act has stuck with me. And over the course of this year, and its election cycle, full of anger, resentment and acrimony, the impression of this small act of grace only grew. You do not need me to tell you how easy it is to hate, or how our modern world’s tools exacerbate the impulse to rip into others. What’s more elusive is the value in simply treating someone as you’d want to be treated, and man, do we ever need to be reminded of it. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I don’t have the painting anymore, and don’t even remember why. But I do have the fan, this talisman of a stranger’s good heart, and a forever unreached ideal. Just like all of us, it’s a little damaged, with dents and squeaks. Its whirring axle, over time, has forged a hole in the metal casing. Sometimes it breaks down completely, and needs the help of others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But mostly, each time I walk by and touch it, the fan reminds me to be patient, kind, and merciful to other people. Not to be all holding-hands-around-the-globe or anything, but that’s something we could all use as this year winds down. \u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969432\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969432\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square.jpg\" alt=\"Young girl climbs a bouldering wall.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The author’s daughter climbs a bouldering wall during a recent rock climbing competition. \u003ccite>(Luke Tsai/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I never expected that I would become a sports dad. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say I’d long ago given up on the idea: The gods bestowed my wife and me with two smart, lovely girls of moderate hand-eye coordination, more inclined to hide away in their room for hours with a Rubik’s cube or a stack of comic books than engage me in a game of catch. My youngest, bless her heart, is about to take the beginners’ swim class for something like the 17th time. She’ll probably take it an 18th time too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, they’re very much their father’s daughters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I wasn’t quite prepared, earlier this fall, when the 13-year-old decided to sign up for skateboard lessons, and when the eight-year-old tried out for — and made — the youth climbing team at the local bouldering gym. Suddenly I’d joined the ranks of all the other soccer moms and gymnastics dads shuttling the kids to endless weekend and after-school practices. Buying high-protein granola bars in bulk. Filming little cellphone videos from the sidelines to share in the family group chat. Shouting inanities like, “If you aren’t falling down ALL THE TIME, you’re probably not trying hard enough!” (Hearing all this, a friend asked me, “When did \u003ci>you\u003c/i> become such a \u003ca href=\"https://www.newyorker.com/news/fault-lines/were-all-tiger-moms-now\">tiger parent\u003c/a>?” About three months ago, apparently.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The thing no one ever tells you about sports dadding, though, is that sometimes you actually have to \u003ci>participate\u003c/i> in said sport(s) yourself. By now I’ve given so many lectures about the importance of taking risks and trying new things that it only seemed right for me to swallow a dose of my own medicine. And so, during one of our early skatepark outings, the teen taught me how to jump onto the board with both feet. On totally flat ground, I managed to balance myself for about three seconds before the skateboard kicked out from under me and sent me tumbling to the concrete — and that was that. (I know the limits of middle age; I’m not \u003ci>trying\u003c/i> to end up in the hospital with a shattered hip.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At least at the bouldering gym, you fall on a padded mat. And now, monthly father-daughter climbing sessions have become part of our routine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cspan style=\"color: #2b2b2b;font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13968532,arts_13969349']\u003c/span>\u003c/span>I never tried rock climbing when I was young and reasonably fit, but I’d always thought of it as a sport for thin outdoorsy types who were incredibly lithe of limb. I am…not that. These past months, I’ve often stood in front of even the simplest boulder problems (as the color-coded climbing routes are called) with a mixture of sheer hilarity and terror. \u003ci>What do you mean I have to contort my arms and legs into that ungodly position?\u003c/i> \u003ci>Just whomst, exactly, do you think I am?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have become intimately familiar with the way gravity hits different in your mid-40s — with all the unlikely angles at which this old and heavy, half-decrepit body of mine can come crashing down onto the mat. Or, in my prouder moments, the way I wheeze my way up to the top, forearms burning, only to spend the next two days bed-ridden with a thrown-out back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of this is the source of much merriment for my eight-year-old, who has taken to the sport like she was born to do it — light as air as she tip-taps her feet from boulder to boulder or, on the steepest-angled walls, hangs upside-down, like Spiderman, for longer than seems possible. On the way to practice each Monday afternoon, she is as excited as she ever gets, with her monkey-shaped chalk bag strapped over her shoulder, her pink unicorn water bottle filled to the brim. She is ready to CLIMB.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969445\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969445\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing.jpg\" alt=\"A young girl climbs a very high rock climbing wall.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"2521\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-800x1120.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-1020x1429.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-160x224.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-768x1076.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-1097x1536.jpg 1097w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-1462x2048.jpg 1462w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Scaling a 40-foot wall for the speed climbing portion of a competition. \u003ccite>(Luke Tsai/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Which isn’t necessarily to say it’s come easily for her: She is by far the littlest member of the team, which means sometimes she simply can’t reach the starting handholds, not even with a running start. She’s also always been the most cautious one in our family of careful rule followers — wary of new people and new experiences, occasionally prone to worrying herself to tears over school projects a full week before they’re due.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You’ll have to forgive me, then, for the way I teared up when one of her coaches pulled me aside, a couple months in, to tell me how much he’d enjoyed having her on the team — how she was a very careful, deliberate climber, and also very, very brave. Her sweet, exuberant coaches — some of them still just college students themselves — who have her doing multiple sets of burpees and ab crunches, and who are also so incredibly gentle with her, kneeling down to face level to give her “\u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beta_(climbing)\">beta\u003c/a>” (climber-speak for strategic advice) on tough boulder problems. Who model for all the kids a kind of non-toxic masculinity that I myself am still aspiring toward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>About a month ago, we drove up to Santa Rosa for my daughter’s first formal climbing competition, and I watched as she tried to ascend a particularly tricky wall — the handholds set maybe just an inch too far apart for someone her height to reach. Still, she scrambled up and up, and I almost started to cry again when I heard the booming chorus of voices — her coach and her older teammates — ring out: “Come on, you’ve got this. YOU’VE GOT THIS! Don’t give up. You’re almost there!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Call it the peak of sports dad–dom: All I could do, my heart in my throat, was join in.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969432\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969432\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square.jpg\" alt=\"Young girl climbs a bouldering wall.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/climbing-1-square-1920x1920.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The author’s daughter climbs a bouldering wall during a recent rock climbing competition. \u003ccite>(Luke Tsai/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I never expected that I would become a sports dad. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say I’d long ago given up on the idea: The gods bestowed my wife and me with two smart, lovely girls of moderate hand-eye coordination, more inclined to hide away in their room for hours with a Rubik’s cube or a stack of comic books than engage me in a game of catch. My youngest, bless her heart, is about to take the beginners’ swim class for something like the 17th time. She’ll probably take it an 18th time too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, they’re very much their father’s daughters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I wasn’t quite prepared, earlier this fall, when the 13-year-old decided to sign up for skateboard lessons, and when the eight-year-old tried out for — and made — the youth climbing team at the local bouldering gym. Suddenly I’d joined the ranks of all the other soccer moms and gymnastics dads shuttling the kids to endless weekend and after-school practices. Buying high-protein granola bars in bulk. Filming little cellphone videos from the sidelines to share in the family group chat. Shouting inanities like, “If you aren’t falling down ALL THE TIME, you’re probably not trying hard enough!” (Hearing all this, a friend asked me, “When did \u003ci>you\u003c/i> become such a \u003ca href=\"https://www.newyorker.com/news/fault-lines/were-all-tiger-moms-now\">tiger parent\u003c/a>?” About three months ago, apparently.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The thing no one ever tells you about sports dadding, though, is that sometimes you actually have to \u003ci>participate\u003c/i> in said sport(s) yourself. By now I’ve given so many lectures about the importance of taking risks and trying new things that it only seemed right for me to swallow a dose of my own medicine. And so, during one of our early skatepark outings, the teen taught me how to jump onto the board with both feet. On totally flat ground, I managed to balance myself for about three seconds before the skateboard kicked out from under me and sent me tumbling to the concrete — and that was that. (I know the limits of middle age; I’m not \u003ci>trying\u003c/i> to end up in the hospital with a shattered hip.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At least at the bouldering gym, you fall on a padded mat. And now, monthly father-daughter climbing sessions have become part of our routine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cspan style=\"color: #2b2b2b;font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>\u003c/span>I never tried rock climbing when I was young and reasonably fit, but I’d always thought of it as a sport for thin outdoorsy types who were incredibly lithe of limb. I am…not that. These past months, I’ve often stood in front of even the simplest boulder problems (as the color-coded climbing routes are called) with a mixture of sheer hilarity and terror. \u003ci>What do you mean I have to contort my arms and legs into that ungodly position?\u003c/i> \u003ci>Just whomst, exactly, do you think I am?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have become intimately familiar with the way gravity hits different in your mid-40s — with all the unlikely angles at which this old and heavy, half-decrepit body of mine can come crashing down onto the mat. Or, in my prouder moments, the way I wheeze my way up to the top, forearms burning, only to spend the next two days bed-ridden with a thrown-out back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of this is the source of much merriment for my eight-year-old, who has taken to the sport like she was born to do it — light as air as she tip-taps her feet from boulder to boulder or, on the steepest-angled walls, hangs upside-down, like Spiderman, for longer than seems possible. On the way to practice each Monday afternoon, she is as excited as she ever gets, with her monkey-shaped chalk bag strapped over her shoulder, her pink unicorn water bottle filled to the brim. She is ready to CLIMB.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969445\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969445\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing.jpg\" alt=\"A young girl climbs a very high rock climbing wall.\" width=\"1800\" height=\"2521\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-800x1120.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-1020x1429.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-160x224.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-768x1076.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-1097x1536.jpg 1097w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/speed-climbing-1462x2048.jpg 1462w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Scaling a 40-foot wall for the speed climbing portion of a competition. \u003ccite>(Luke Tsai/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Which isn’t necessarily to say it’s come easily for her: She is by far the littlest member of the team, which means sometimes she simply can’t reach the starting handholds, not even with a running start. She’s also always been the most cautious one in our family of careful rule followers — wary of new people and new experiences, occasionally prone to worrying herself to tears over school projects a full week before they’re due.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You’ll have to forgive me, then, for the way I teared up when one of her coaches pulled me aside, a couple months in, to tell me how much he’d enjoyed having her on the team — how she was a very careful, deliberate climber, and also very, very brave. Her sweet, exuberant coaches — some of them still just college students themselves — who have her doing multiple sets of burpees and ab crunches, and who are also so incredibly gentle with her, kneeling down to face level to give her “\u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beta_(climbing)\">beta\u003c/a>” (climber-speak for strategic advice) on tough boulder problems. Who model for all the kids a kind of non-toxic masculinity that I myself am still aspiring toward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>About a month ago, we drove up to Santa Rosa for my daughter’s first formal climbing competition, and I watched as she tried to ascend a particularly tricky wall — the handholds set maybe just an inch too far apart for someone her height to reach. Still, she scrambled up and up, and I almost started to cry again when I heard the booming chorus of voices — her coach and her older teammates — ring out: “Come on, you’ve got this. YOU’VE GOT THIS! Don’t give up. You’re almost there!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Call it the peak of sports dad–dom: All I could do, my heart in my throat, was join in.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]O[/dropcap]n a cliffside in Carlsbad, a hundred feet above the lapping waves of the Pacific Ocean, about two dozen strangers unloaded surfboards and strung up their tents. In glitter boots and overalls, muscle tanks and Tevas, the experienced campers lent helping hands to us city folk tangling ourselves in polyester and vinyl.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We had signed up for this trip months before through Queer Surf, a scrappy San Francisco-based org that gets queer and trans people riding waves. It just so happened to be days after Donald Trump won the presidential election. After watching his campaign run on an explicitly anti-trans agenda, with plans to roll back legal protections and civil liberties, the mood in Carlsbad was anxious. That first night, we huddled together around the campfire in our puffer jackets and beanies, clutching mugs of tea. At neighboring campsites, Trump flags gleefully flew from RVs and pick-up trucks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Processing this new reality over the next few days, we created a buoy of hope through a thousand simple acts of kindness. The early risers catching waves at the break of dawn would switch on the coffee machine; those who got up later scrambled eggs and fried potatoes for our collective breakfasts. Any sense of social anxiety dissipated each time I plopped down on a picnic table and joined a conversation about books, love, the ocean, family or our cultural backgrounds. For that weekend, we all committed to caring for one another — and became friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969390\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969390\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Surfers at Queer Surf camp in Carlsbad, California, Nov. 9, 2024. \u003ccite>(heidi andrea restrepo rhodes)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Camp life settled into a luxuriously slow rhythm. Between surfing sessions where we’d cheer each other on — whether someone pulled off a complicated maneuver or caught a wave for the first time — people offered up their skills. One friend led a yoga session in the afternoon sun while another invited everyone to join them for a Chinese tea ceremony. Another friend French braided people’s hair while someone else shared poetry prompts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We swapped stories and jokes, and napped at our leisure. We marveled as dolphins in pods of three or six leapt out of the water during a sunset surf. I had come to camp with my best friend of 14 years, and we drew a picture of ourselves in chalk, surfing under a rainbow. Our inner children were happy. [aside postid='arts_13969210']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the third day of surfing, after riding a particularly satisfying wave to the shore, I stepped off my board and felt a sharp pain in my foot. It took me a moment to process what I saw: There was a baby stingray attached to me (a California round ray, I’d learn later). I screamed and waved to my best friend, starting a chain reaction of helpfulness that ended with my fellow surfers rushing to me with a giant thermos of hot water for my foot. Back at camp, everyone stopped by to check on me. Fortunately, it turned out the stingray didn’t get me that badly because I had been wearing surf booties. After a couple hours, the pain was mostly gone. [aside postid='arts_13969221']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After that shocking encounter with nature, I felt grateful to be the recipient of such love and support. From my bestie, yes, and also from so many new friends. As queer people, many of us have a strong belief in collective care, in chosen families. In the way they showed up for me, that sense of solidarity wasn’t just a nice concept — I felt it deeply.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My time at Queer Surf Camp showed me that no matter what happens in 2025, personally or politically, we have each other, and we can create that sense of belonging and hope through a thousand simple acts of kindness.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">O\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n a cliffside in Carlsbad, a hundred feet above the lapping waves of the Pacific Ocean, about two dozen strangers unloaded surfboards and strung up their tents. In glitter boots and overalls, muscle tanks and Tevas, the experienced campers lent helping hands to us city folk tangling ourselves in polyester and vinyl.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We had signed up for this trip months before through Queer Surf, a scrappy San Francisco-based org that gets queer and trans people riding waves. It just so happened to be days after Donald Trump won the presidential election. After watching his campaign run on an explicitly anti-trans agenda, with plans to roll back legal protections and civil liberties, the mood in Carlsbad was anxious. That first night, we huddled together around the campfire in our puffer jackets and beanies, clutching mugs of tea. At neighboring campsites, Trump flags gleefully flew from RVs and pick-up trucks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Processing this new reality over the next few days, we created a buoy of hope through a thousand simple acts of kindness. The early risers catching waves at the break of dawn would switch on the coffee machine; those who got up later scrambled eggs and fried potatoes for our collective breakfasts. Any sense of social anxiety dissipated each time I plopped down on a picnic table and joined a conversation about books, love, the ocean, family or our cultural backgrounds. For that weekend, we all committed to caring for one another — and became friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969390\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969390\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/IMG_0486-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Surfers at Queer Surf camp in Carlsbad, California, Nov. 9, 2024. \u003ccite>(heidi andrea restrepo rhodes)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Camp life settled into a luxuriously slow rhythm. Between surfing sessions where we’d cheer each other on — whether someone pulled off a complicated maneuver or caught a wave for the first time — people offered up their skills. One friend led a yoga session in the afternoon sun while another invited everyone to join them for a Chinese tea ceremony. Another friend French braided people’s hair while someone else shared poetry prompts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After that shocking encounter with nature, I felt grateful to be the recipient of such love and support. From my bestie, yes, and also from so many new friends. As queer people, many of us have a strong belief in collective care, in chosen families. In the way they showed up for me, that sense of solidarity wasn’t just a nice concept — I felt it deeply.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My time at Queer Surf Camp showed me that no matter what happens in 2025, personally or politically, we have each other, and we can create that sense of belonging and hope through a thousand simple acts of kindness.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t’s just after 11 a.m. on Nov. 25, and inside Little Caesars I hear an employee standing next to the oven in the back, screaming, “MUSTARRRRRRRD!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the register, my 8-year-old daughter is next to me, hungry and confused. I smile and say softly, “It’s happening.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She doesn’t understand. \u003cem>What does mustard have to do with pizza? What’s happening? Why is my dad smiling? \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maybe it’s too much for her to understand, but I’m sure you will. The sound of a low-wage hourly employee, working at a billion-dollar food chain, momentarily liberating themselves by bellowing lyrics from the top rapper in the game.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s a beautiful thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s art, it’s culture, it’s the reason hip-hop was created. It’s a taste of self-determination over the thunderous drums of the day-to-day struggle. It’s the sound of freedom, however fleeting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv style=\"width: 100%\" align=\"center\">\n\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" width=\"700\" height=\"800\" src=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DC4zqmZTdcw/embed\" frameborder=\"0\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\n\u003c/div>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"color: #ffffff\">b\u003c/span>\u003cbr>\nThe roar of “MUSTARD!!!” comes from “tv off,” a standout track on Kendrick Lamar’s latest album, \u003ci>GNX\u003c/i>. Partway through the song, the beat switches to a menacing tempo, and Kendrick shouts producer DJ Mustard’s name in such a tone that he etches it directly into the listener’s central nervous system — causing the word to sporadically spring from a person’s throat at a later date, even when the song isn’t playing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The pizza-making homie was joking on the job, referencing popular culture, but for me it could’ve just as well been a call to an Orisha. His guttural utterance brought one very beautiful thing to mind about this past year: the culture is alive and well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13960077\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13960077\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images.jpg\" alt=\"A Black man in a red hoodie raps on the mic and holds one finger aloft while an arena ceiling bathed in golden light is in the background\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-1536x864.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kendrick Lamar performs during ‘The Pop Out – Ken & Friends’ at the Forum on June 19, 2024 in Inglewood, California. \u003ccite>(Timothy Norris/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>West Coast hip-hop is currently abuzz, and Kendrick is at the top of the pack. After emerging as the clear winner of an epic rap battle against Canadian rapper Drake, which brought arguably the song of the year “Not Like Us,” on Juneteenth Kendrick Lamar hosted \u003cem>The Pop Out: Ken & Friends,\u003c/em> a one-day festival featuring a host of artists from the greater Los Angeles area under the bright lights at The Forum. With narration from the Bay Area’s ambassador E-40, the show was an authentic display of unity and regional talent, livestreamed to the masses. Weeks later, Kendrick was announced as next year’s Super Bowl halftime headliner.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All told, 2024 was an immaculate year for the Pulitzer-Prize winning rapper, who I’ve followed since I was downloading his early mixtapes from DatPiff in my college dorm during President Obama’s first term. Kendrick is an artist I’ve only seen once in concert — \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7JC3_XH5Kc\">at The New Parish in Oakland\u003c/a>, in 2011 — and yet I identify with his story. We’re both short kids from California, born in 1987 and raised on Tupac. I too am from a “mad city,” but I wasn’t in \u003cem>the game\u003c/em>, just \u003cem>game-\u003c/em>adjacent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I’m just one of many who can relate. That widespread ability to identify with Kendrick’s story means that this year’s success wasn’t just Kendrick’s. His rise is intertwined with a culture, a coast, a class of people. His listeners are a generation of folks who know what it’s like to sing songs that make ’em feel like a million bucks, despite the economic chasm between \u003cem>the pursuit\u003c/em> and \u003cem>the happiness\u003c/em> growing, exponentially.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969282\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969282\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner-.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1125\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner-.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kendrick Lamar. \u003ccite>(Andre D. Wagner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Since I first heard his song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHbr0Oe2u3Q\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Heaven & Hell\u003c/a>” during the blog era, I’ve watched K. Dot’s influence grow. Parallel to his tale is my ever-increasing interest in West Coast hip-hop. Last year, I worked with my colleagues at KQED to produce \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop%20\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, a multimedia project inspired by hip-hop’s 50th anniversary, for which we unearthed some of the deepest, dopest parts of the Bay Area’s contributions to hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After spending a year blowing dust off classic albums and talking to folks about hip-hop history, this year was about understanding the current wave, starting with the Bay and expanding out from there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the past year I’ve written about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13956365/larry-june-stanford-blackfest-free\">Larry June\u003c/a>’s free concert at Stanford University (good job), and the rise in popularity of San Francisco’s battle rapping-comedic-bar spitter \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13963964/san-franciscos-frak-has-been-wild-n-out\">Frak\u003c/a> (who is also a person). I wrote about being uplifted by the \u003cem>Black Love\u003c/em> album from\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13966594/oaklands-kingmakers-black-love-album\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\"> Oakland’s Kingmakers Music\u003c/a>, and noted my nostalgia as I covered Oakland’s rising star \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13967001/paris-nights-east-oakland-rapper-videos-90s-throwbacks\">Paris Nights\u003c/a> and her ability to remake classic music videos and films. Berkeley’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13953009/loe-gino-berkeley-birkenstocks-and-bars\">LOE Gino\u003c/a> told me about bringing his authentic Birkenstock-wearing self into his raps, and San Francisco’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13957335/queens-of-the-underground-latina-takeover-hip-hop\">Lil MC\u003c/a> shared insight on carving out a safe space for women and queer MCs in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13957337\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1170px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13957337\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1170\" height=\"658\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed.jpg 1170w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed-768x432.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1170px) 100vw, 1170px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">LiL MC and members of Iron Lotus Street Dance rock the stage at a Queens of The Underground event. \u003ccite>(Sarah Arnold)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13965374/east-side-san-jose-rap-hustle\">East Side San Jose\u003c/a>, I talked to a handful of artists who simply want to make sure their culture isn’t overshadowed by the tech scions of Silicon Valley, so they make music about their side of town. Authentic artistic expression, despite the big banks down in the shark tank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But what’s been published is just a small sample of what I’ve absorbed. This past summer I took in a LaRussell show at the Pergola in Vallejo, and hit History of the Bay Day in San Francisco. I drove all around the Bay listening to new music from Stockton’s EBK Jaaybo, Oakland’s Kamaiyah and San Francisco’s Lil Bean.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My playlists have a bunch of new music from Southern Californian talent too, like 03 Greedo and Vince Staples, as well as Big Sad 1900, BlueBucksClan, Buddy, Blu and even new music from Dre & Snoop. Kendrick’s former label mates Ab-Soul and ScHoolboy Q both dropped projects that should be in the conversation for album of the year, right next to Tyler, The Creator’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I knew West Coast hip-hop was active before I entered the pizza place on that November day, but the significance of its influence wasn’t clear until after I left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13968611\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2935px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still.png\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13968611\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still.png\" alt=\"man sits on chair while people dance and bike around him\" width=\"2935\" height=\"1651\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still.png 2935w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-1536x864.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-2048x1152.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-1920x1080.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2935px) 100vw, 2935px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Velo, Dmonte, Icecold 3000 and Aktive (left to right) ride scraper bikes and go dumb in Kendrick Lamar’s ‘squabble up’ video. \u003ccite>(Kendrick Lamar/YouTube)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>That same morning, Kendrick Lamar released the video for the song “squabble up,” the first single from his latest album. Saturated with cultural references, the video shows a Black Panther statuette and a painting of Black Jesus; a Pan-African flag, visuals inspired by Ice T’s \u003cem>Power\u003c/em> album cover and a reference to a character from 1993 film \u003cem>Menace II Society\u003c/em>. There’s also a scraper bike and a few turf dancers, nods to the hyphy movement, a topic I spent the bulk of last year untangling in a very personal podcast series “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13934874/hyphy-kids-got-trauma\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Hyphy Kids Got Trauma\u003c/a>,” about my coming of age and the commodification of my culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kendrick Lamar’s latest music video, the album itself and the many threads that flow through his art speak to what I see as four generations of existence. He honors those who’ve passed on, shouts out the elders who made it happen, checks in with peers and provides space for the next generation. Culture is passed along.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dances, the fashion, the slang and the teachings over dope beats — it’s all so simple, and yet so spiritual. It’s from the dirt and the have-nots, often shared across the internet and sold online.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And as the big business of Amazon, Spotify, Apple, Cash App, Ticketmaster and others rake in the dough, a pizza-maker reminds me that culture is still free.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>t’s just after 11 a.m. on Nov. 25, and inside Little Caesars I hear an employee standing next to the oven in the back, screaming, “MUSTARRRRRRRD!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the register, my 8-year-old daughter is next to me, hungry and confused. I smile and say softly, “It’s happening.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She doesn’t understand. \u003cem>What does mustard have to do with pizza? What’s happening? Why is my dad smiling? \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maybe it’s too much for her to understand, but I’m sure you will. The sound of a low-wage hourly employee, working at a billion-dollar food chain, momentarily liberating themselves by bellowing lyrics from the top rapper in the game.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s a beautiful thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s art, it’s culture, it’s the reason hip-hop was created. It’s a taste of self-determination over the thunderous drums of the day-to-day struggle. It’s the sound of freedom, however fleeting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv style=\"width: 100%\" align=\"center\">\n\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" width=\"700\" height=\"800\" src=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DC4zqmZTdcw/embed\" frameborder=\"0\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\n\u003c/div>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"color: #ffffff\">b\u003c/span>\u003cbr>\nThe roar of “MUSTARD!!!” comes from “tv off,” a standout track on Kendrick Lamar’s latest album, \u003ci>GNX\u003c/i>. Partway through the song, the beat switches to a menacing tempo, and Kendrick shouts producer DJ Mustard’s name in such a tone that he etches it directly into the listener’s central nervous system — causing the word to sporadically spring from a person’s throat at a later date, even when the song isn’t playing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The pizza-making homie was joking on the job, referencing popular culture, but for me it could’ve just as well been a call to an Orisha. His guttural utterance brought one very beautiful thing to mind about this past year: the culture is alive and well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13960077\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13960077\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images.jpg\" alt=\"A Black man in a red hoodie raps on the mic and holds one finger aloft while an arena ceiling bathed in golden light is in the background\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/Kendrick.Timothy-Norris-Getty-Images-1536x864.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kendrick Lamar performs during ‘The Pop Out – Ken & Friends’ at the Forum on June 19, 2024 in Inglewood, California. \u003ccite>(Timothy Norris/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>West Coast hip-hop is currently abuzz, and Kendrick is at the top of the pack. After emerging as the clear winner of an epic rap battle against Canadian rapper Drake, which brought arguably the song of the year “Not Like Us,” on Juneteenth Kendrick Lamar hosted \u003cem>The Pop Out: Ken & Friends,\u003c/em> a one-day festival featuring a host of artists from the greater Los Angeles area under the bright lights at The Forum. With narration from the Bay Area’s ambassador E-40, the show was an authentic display of unity and regional talent, livestreamed to the masses. Weeks later, Kendrick was announced as next year’s Super Bowl halftime headliner.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All told, 2024 was an immaculate year for the Pulitzer-Prize winning rapper, who I’ve followed since I was downloading his early mixtapes from DatPiff in my college dorm during President Obama’s first term. Kendrick is an artist I’ve only seen once in concert — \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7JC3_XH5Kc\">at The New Parish in Oakland\u003c/a>, in 2011 — and yet I identify with his story. We’re both short kids from California, born in 1987 and raised on Tupac. I too am from a “mad city,” but I wasn’t in \u003cem>the game\u003c/em>, just \u003cem>game-\u003c/em>adjacent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I’m just one of many who can relate. That widespread ability to identify with Kendrick’s story means that this year’s success wasn’t just Kendrick’s. His rise is intertwined with a culture, a coast, a class of people. His listeners are a generation of folks who know what it’s like to sing songs that make ’em feel like a million bucks, despite the economic chasm between \u003cem>the pursuit\u003c/em> and \u003cem>the happiness\u003c/em> growing, exponentially.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969282\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969282\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner-.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1125\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner-.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/Kendrick.Credit_-Andre-D.-Wagner--1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kendrick Lamar. \u003ccite>(Andre D. Wagner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Since I first heard his song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHbr0Oe2u3Q\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Heaven & Hell\u003c/a>” during the blog era, I’ve watched K. Dot’s influence grow. Parallel to his tale is my ever-increasing interest in West Coast hip-hop. Last year, I worked with my colleagues at KQED to produce \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop%20\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, a multimedia project inspired by hip-hop’s 50th anniversary, for which we unearthed some of the deepest, dopest parts of the Bay Area’s contributions to hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After spending a year blowing dust off classic albums and talking to folks about hip-hop history, this year was about understanding the current wave, starting with the Bay and expanding out from there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the past year I’ve written about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13956365/larry-june-stanford-blackfest-free\">Larry June\u003c/a>’s free concert at Stanford University (good job), and the rise in popularity of San Francisco’s battle rapping-comedic-bar spitter \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13963964/san-franciscos-frak-has-been-wild-n-out\">Frak\u003c/a> (who is also a person). I wrote about being uplifted by the \u003cem>Black Love\u003c/em> album from\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13966594/oaklands-kingmakers-black-love-album\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\"> Oakland’s Kingmakers Music\u003c/a>, and noted my nostalgia as I covered Oakland’s rising star \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13967001/paris-nights-east-oakland-rapper-videos-90s-throwbacks\">Paris Nights\u003c/a> and her ability to remake classic music videos and films. Berkeley’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13953009/loe-gino-berkeley-birkenstocks-and-bars\">LOE Gino\u003c/a> told me about bringing his authentic Birkenstock-wearing self into his raps, and San Francisco’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13957335/queens-of-the-underground-latina-takeover-hip-hop\">Lil MC\u003c/a> shared insight on carving out a safe space for women and queer MCs in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13957337\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1170px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13957337\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1170\" height=\"658\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed.jpg 1170w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/05/unnamed-768x432.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1170px) 100vw, 1170px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">LiL MC and members of Iron Lotus Street Dance rock the stage at a Queens of The Underground event. \u003ccite>(Sarah Arnold)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13965374/east-side-san-jose-rap-hustle\">East Side San Jose\u003c/a>, I talked to a handful of artists who simply want to make sure their culture isn’t overshadowed by the tech scions of Silicon Valley, so they make music about their side of town. Authentic artistic expression, despite the big banks down in the shark tank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But what’s been published is just a small sample of what I’ve absorbed. This past summer I took in a LaRussell show at the Pergola in Vallejo, and hit History of the Bay Day in San Francisco. I drove all around the Bay listening to new music from Stockton’s EBK Jaaybo, Oakland’s Kamaiyah and San Francisco’s Lil Bean.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My playlists have a bunch of new music from Southern Californian talent too, like 03 Greedo and Vince Staples, as well as Big Sad 1900, BlueBucksClan, Buddy, Blu and even new music from Dre & Snoop. Kendrick’s former label mates Ab-Soul and ScHoolboy Q both dropped projects that should be in the conversation for album of the year, right next to Tyler, The Creator’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I knew West Coast hip-hop was active before I entered the pizza place on that November day, but the significance of its influence wasn’t clear until after I left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13968611\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2935px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still.png\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13968611\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still.png\" alt=\"man sits on chair while people dance and bike around him\" width=\"2935\" height=\"1651\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still.png 2935w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-1536x864.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-2048x1152.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/squabble-up-still-1920x1080.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2935px) 100vw, 2935px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Velo, Dmonte, Icecold 3000 and Aktive (left to right) ride scraper bikes and go dumb in Kendrick Lamar’s ‘squabble up’ video. \u003ccite>(Kendrick Lamar/YouTube)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>That same morning, Kendrick Lamar released the video for the song “squabble up,” the first single from his latest album. Saturated with cultural references, the video shows a Black Panther statuette and a painting of Black Jesus; a Pan-African flag, visuals inspired by Ice T’s \u003cem>Power\u003c/em> album cover and a reference to a character from 1993 film \u003cem>Menace II Society\u003c/em>. There’s also a scraper bike and a few turf dancers, nods to the hyphy movement, a topic I spent the bulk of last year untangling in a very personal podcast series “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13934874/hyphy-kids-got-trauma\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Hyphy Kids Got Trauma\u003c/a>,” about my coming of age and the commodification of my culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kendrick Lamar’s latest music video, the album itself and the many threads that flow through his art speak to what I see as four generations of existence. He honors those who’ve passed on, shouts out the elders who made it happen, checks in with peers and provides space for the next generation. Culture is passed along.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dances, the fashion, the slang and the teachings over dope beats — it’s all so simple, and yet so spiritual. It’s from the dirt and the have-nots, often shared across the internet and sold online.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And as the big business of Amazon, Spotify, Apple, Cash App, Ticketmaster and others rake in the dough, a pizza-maker reminds me that culture is still free.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13968966\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13968966\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017.png\" alt=\"A gold, black and red mural that reads 'There is so much love in this city.'\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1868\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017.png 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-800x747.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-1020x953.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-160x149.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-768x717.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-1536x1435.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-1920x1793.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The side of Frisco Tattoo, Osage Alley, 2017. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]F[/dropcap]ifteen years ago, a series of Extremely Fortunate Events aligned that enabled me to buy an apartment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First there was an inheritance from overseas. Then there was an exchange rate that doubled the money. Then there was a building that agreed to give me a fat discount if I bought the apartment before the construction was finished. Most importantly, this all happened before the tech buses arrived in the Mission District and drove property prices up to new and unattainable heights.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13968532']Me and this apartment, I always thought, were meant to be. I found her just in the nick of time. And for 15 years, she and I have had quite the love story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The apartment bore witness to romantic relationships, wonderful friendships and far more alcohol-fueled debauchery than anyone should probably be entertaining. She hosted a rotating collection of local art that riddled her walls with holes and her doors with spray paint. She was playground to my menagerie of free-range rats: Foxy Moron (who shared my bed), Thelma and Louise (who ate my blankets), and Daisy, Poppy and Iris (who gnawed on, well, all of my doors).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My 650-square-foot friend even kept me safely in the neighborhood I had called home since 2002, as friends all around me were pushed out by rising rents and Ellis Act evictions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My gratitude for all of this is deep and enduring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But like many passionate affairs, this one finally came to an end. Earlier this year, after months of work repairing all of the damage I had done to her, I sold the longest-running constant in my life to a stranger named David.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had my reasons for letting her go, of course. The desire for more space. Homeowners’ association fees that became unfeasibly high after the pandemic. A building manager who no longer cares about the building. (FIX THE HOLE IN THE STAIRWELL WALL, BRIAN.) Before I really comprehended what was happening, I had moved a 90-minute drive away to a big, affordable house and almost no nightlife whatsoever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just a few years ago, a move as drastic as this would have been absolutely unthinkable. I have been obsessively clinging to San Francisco for more than two decades. The Mission has been a huge part of my identity from the moment I moved into the neighborhood. As such, my sudden exit has shocked many of my friends — one of my dearest called me a “suburban hoe-bag” via text message the other day and I could not think of a single rebuttal. The drastic nature of the move has shocked me too — but mostly because of how natural it feels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I didn’t move out of the city because of crime, or grime, or any of the other things people think people leave San Francisco over. I still think that San Francisco is the most beautiful place on Earth and that the Mission is the most vibrant corner of it. I moved simply because I realized I no longer needed the city the way that I used to. My days of being out, roaming the streets, dive bar-hopping and trouble-finding have recently, finally, dissipated. (I’m in my mid-40s, so frankly it’s about time.) In large part, this shift occurred because there is finally a human in my life who I can sit at home with night after night without getting in the least bit bored.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13969221']At the same time that my pace has been slowing down, I have been watching young creatives moving back into the Mission. I see their artistic communities flourishing in spaces like \u003ca href=\"https://www.adobebooks.com/\">Adobe Books\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.hitgallerysf.com/\">Hit Gallery\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://houseofseiko.info/\">House of Seiko\u003c/a>. I see them in clusters outside bars, formulating plans inside coffee shops. They remind me of how San Francisco felt when I first moved here — all of the potential, all of the inspiration, the feeling in your gut that anything could happen. For the last year, my own gut has been telling me that now it’s their time. Stepping aside to make space for them is the natural order of things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I experienced some pangs of guilt abandoning my faithful old apartment, but I recognize the beauty in leaving her too. In 2024, she finally got all of the care I failed to give her for so very long. I patched her holes and painted her walls and ceilings. I fixed floorboards, replaced doors and kitchen caulk, and bought her all new faucets. I cleaned her grout and cabinets, scrubbed her windows and gutters. I hired someone to fix the heating system that had been broken for eight years. And in the process of giving the apartment a new life, I’m giving myself the chance for one too. Perhaps one in which I will do myself (and my surroundings) less damage on a weekly basis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In early November, I went back to my empty apartment one last time. I had keys to label and leave behind on the kitchen counters for David. But I couldn’t resist leaving a note too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I hope this apartment brings you as much joy as it has brought me over the years,” I wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I dream that she and David and the Mission are all getting along famously.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13968966\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13968966\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017.png\" alt=\"A gold, black and red mural that reads 'There is so much love in this city.'\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1868\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017.png 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-800x747.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-1020x953.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-160x149.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-768x717.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-1536x1435.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/frisco-tattoo-2017-1920x1793.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The side of Frisco Tattoo, Osage Alley, 2017. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">F\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ifteen years ago, a series of Extremely Fortunate Events aligned that enabled me to buy an apartment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First there was an inheritance from overseas. Then there was an exchange rate that doubled the money. Then there was a building that agreed to give me a fat discount if I bought the apartment before the construction was finished. Most importantly, this all happened before the tech buses arrived in the Mission District and drove property prices up to new and unattainable heights.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My 650-square-foot friend even kept me safely in the neighborhood I had called home since 2002, as friends all around me were pushed out by rising rents and Ellis Act evictions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My gratitude for all of this is deep and enduring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But like many passionate affairs, this one finally came to an end. Earlier this year, after months of work repairing all of the damage I had done to her, I sold the longest-running constant in my life to a stranger named David.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had my reasons for letting her go, of course. The desire for more space. Homeowners’ association fees that became unfeasibly high after the pandemic. A building manager who no longer cares about the building. (FIX THE HOLE IN THE STAIRWELL WALL, BRIAN.) Before I really comprehended what was happening, I had moved a 90-minute drive away to a big, affordable house and almost no nightlife whatsoever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just a few years ago, a move as drastic as this would have been absolutely unthinkable. I have been obsessively clinging to San Francisco for more than two decades. The Mission has been a huge part of my identity from the moment I moved into the neighborhood. As such, my sudden exit has shocked many of my friends — one of my dearest called me a “suburban hoe-bag” via text message the other day and I could not think of a single rebuttal. The drastic nature of the move has shocked me too — but mostly because of how natural it feels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I didn’t move out of the city because of crime, or grime, or any of the other things people think people leave San Francisco over. I still think that San Francisco is the most beautiful place on Earth and that the Mission is the most vibrant corner of it. I moved simply because I realized I no longer needed the city the way that I used to. My days of being out, roaming the streets, dive bar-hopping and trouble-finding have recently, finally, dissipated. (I’m in my mid-40s, so frankly it’s about time.) In large part, this shift occurred because there is finally a human in my life who I can sit at home with night after night without getting in the least bit bored.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>At the same time that my pace has been slowing down, I have been watching young creatives moving back into the Mission. I see their artistic communities flourishing in spaces like \u003ca href=\"https://www.adobebooks.com/\">Adobe Books\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.hitgallerysf.com/\">Hit Gallery\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://houseofseiko.info/\">House of Seiko\u003c/a>. I see them in clusters outside bars, formulating plans inside coffee shops. They remind me of how San Francisco felt when I first moved here — all of the potential, all of the inspiration, the feeling in your gut that anything could happen. For the last year, my own gut has been telling me that now it’s their time. Stepping aside to make space for them is the natural order of things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I experienced some pangs of guilt abandoning my faithful old apartment, but I recognize the beauty in leaving her too. In 2024, she finally got all of the care I failed to give her for so very long. I patched her holes and painted her walls and ceilings. I fixed floorboards, replaced doors and kitchen caulk, and bought her all new faucets. I cleaned her grout and cabinets, scrubbed her windows and gutters. I hired someone to fix the heating system that had been broken for eight years. And in the process of giving the apartment a new life, I’m giving myself the chance for one too. Perhaps one in which I will do myself (and my surroundings) less damage on a weekly basis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In early November, I went back to my empty apartment one last time. I had keys to label and leave behind on the kitchen counters for David. But I couldn’t resist leaving a note too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I hope this apartment brings you as much joy as it has brought me over the years,” I wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I dream that she and David and the Mission are all getting along famously.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]en years ago I was a junior in college, back when YikYak was still relevant and Schoolboy Q’s \u003cem>Oxymoron\u003c/em> album was brand new. Twice a week, I made my ritual trek along Chicago’s Fullerton Avenue to campus for my intro to American foreign policy class. It was only a handful of blocks from my apartment, but the cold wave that hit the city that winter made those blocks feel like miles, especially when it snowed. But the walk was worth it, because every week I got to periodically glance at the incredibly cool, cute, turquoise-haired stranger that sat one seat away from me: L. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>L was every professor’s dream student to have in class. They were always ready to go when class started, spoke at least once during the discussions and took immaculate notes, and I, on the other hand, dreaded speaking up and was perpetually late thanks to an embarrassing combination of then-undiagnosed ADHD and ongoing sorority obligations. Every week I came to class intending to sit next to L so I could try and befriend them, and every week the seat was claimed before I arrived, already taken by some red-headed kid. To my annoyance, he had an absolutely glowing attendance record until finally, one class before the final exam, he was gone and the seat next to L was mine. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13968532']It was one of those minuscule moments that wound up deeply altering my future. L and I just clicked. Our relationship has changed over the course of time (friends first, followed by a brief stint as partners, then back to friends), but so long as L is in my life, I don’t care what form it takes. L has been such a monumental source of joy that when they suggested flying out to the Bay Area in March so we could reunite to celebrate our decade of love and friendship, I immediately cleared my grad school calendar. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our friendship has endured many twists and turns, including the pandemic, cross-country moves (L to Texas, me to California), and two master’s programs (one apiece). Between in-person hang outs over the years, we’ve visited each other’s islands on Animal Crossing, FaceTimed, and exchanged birthday cards, Christmas cards, Halloween cards, and plenty of ‘just because’ cards. Once, after helping me pack up my old Chicago apartment in the early days of COVID lockdown, my dad even let me take a detour on our way back to Minnesota, just so we could wave at each other from six feet apart. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve never run out of things to talk about or learn from each other. I’ve always admired, for example, the way L carries themself. In 2014, L was totally unapologetic about the pieces of pop culture they loved, like One Direction and Captain America, and about their personal style, which included piercings and tattoos my parents would have burnt me at the stake for even thinking of getting. Today, L still encourages me to reject cringe culture, to enjoy the things I enjoy without caring what others think. So when they came out to visit, we indulged in all of our shared interests, cringe or not, including history, horror and K-pop. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969226\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000.jpg\" alt=\"two pictures of hands holding small photo frames in front of Victorian mansion\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1360\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969226\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-1020x694.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-768x522.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-1536x1044.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-1920x1306.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">With our K-pop photocards at the Winchester Mystery House in San José. \u003ccite>(Shannon Faulise/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We brought our favorite K-pop photocard holders along for a tour of the Winchester Mystery House in San José, drove to San Francisco and then Concord to scope out the selections at local K-pop stores, and ate takeout on my Berkeley apartment’s rooftop while the sun set. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We reminisced about the people we used to be and the things we used to do together, like attending protests and celebrating pride at Chicago’s Dyke March. We giggled about the time we ran into \u003cem>Drag Race\u003c/em> legend Naomi Smalls (L was so overwhelmed they forgot how to smile when we took a selfie with her), and the time L graciously agreed to be my date to the Chi Omega spring formal (the first, but not the last Greek life event I dragged them to). We reflected on the American foreign policy class that brought us together in the first place, and even clinked our glasses of soju to toast the red-headed kid for missing that last week of class. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>L’s impact on me is emotional and very tactile. I keep two framed photos of their childhood self dressed as a witch for Halloween in my living room, and one of their old hoodies hangs in my closet. We have matching K-pop-related keychains and still sometimes refer to ourselves as “LANNON” (a combination of our names). We even have disgustingly cute matching friendship tattoos that we got last year: L has a pink-frosted doughnut to represent me, and I have an orange-frosted doughnut on my right arm to represent them. In the Instagram post L made after visiting me, someone in the comments even wished us a “happy LANNON decade!” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There just aren’t enough words to describe how stupidly lucky I am to have someone in my life who makes that life so much brighter and fun. We may no longer be the same Captain America-loving (L) and \u003cem>Pretty Little Liars\u003c/em>-obsessed (me) college kids we once were, but we’ve been, and will continue to be, together for all of our rebirths and revivals, through new hair colors, music obsessions and other lifestyle changes. The future is something that still haunts me when I think deeply about it, but at least I won’t have to face it alone. As 2024 comes to a close, I feel less scared and more excited to step into a new decade with L by my side, to see where and how we’ll continue to grow together. \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>en years ago I was a junior in college, back when YikYak was still relevant and Schoolboy Q’s \u003cem>Oxymoron\u003c/em> album was brand new. Twice a week, I made my ritual trek along Chicago’s Fullerton Avenue to campus for my intro to American foreign policy class. It was only a handful of blocks from my apartment, but the cold wave that hit the city that winter made those blocks feel like miles, especially when it snowed. But the walk was worth it, because every week I got to periodically glance at the incredibly cool, cute, turquoise-haired stranger that sat one seat away from me: L. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>L was every professor’s dream student to have in class. They were always ready to go when class started, spoke at least once during the discussions and took immaculate notes, and I, on the other hand, dreaded speaking up and was perpetually late thanks to an embarrassing combination of then-undiagnosed ADHD and ongoing sorority obligations. Every week I came to class intending to sit next to L so I could try and befriend them, and every week the seat was claimed before I arrived, already taken by some red-headed kid. To my annoyance, he had an absolutely glowing attendance record until finally, one class before the final exam, he was gone and the seat next to L was mine. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve never run out of things to talk about or learn from each other. I’ve always admired, for example, the way L carries themself. In 2014, L was totally unapologetic about the pieces of pop culture they loved, like One Direction and Captain America, and about their personal style, which included piercings and tattoos my parents would have burnt me at the stake for even thinking of getting. Today, L still encourages me to reject cringe culture, to enjoy the things I enjoy without caring what others think. So when they came out to visit, we indulged in all of our shared interests, cringe or not, including history, horror and K-pop. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13969226\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000.jpg\" alt=\"two pictures of hands holding small photo frames in front of Victorian mansion\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1360\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13969226\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-1020x694.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-768x522.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-1536x1044.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/12/photocards_2000-1920x1306.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">With our K-pop photocards at the Winchester Mystery House in San José. \u003ccite>(Shannon Faulise/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We brought our favorite K-pop photocard holders along for a tour of the Winchester Mystery House in San José, drove to San Francisco and then Concord to scope out the selections at local K-pop stores, and ate takeout on my Berkeley apartment’s rooftop while the sun set. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We reminisced about the people we used to be and the things we used to do together, like attending protests and celebrating pride at Chicago’s Dyke March. We giggled about the time we ran into \u003cem>Drag Race\u003c/em> legend Naomi Smalls (L was so overwhelmed they forgot how to smile when we took a selfie with her), and the time L graciously agreed to be my date to the Chi Omega spring formal (the first, but not the last Greek life event I dragged them to). We reflected on the American foreign policy class that brought us together in the first place, and even clinked our glasses of soju to toast the red-headed kid for missing that last week of class. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>L’s impact on me is emotional and very tactile. I keep two framed photos of their childhood self dressed as a witch for Halloween in my living room, and one of their old hoodies hangs in my closet. We have matching K-pop-related keychains and still sometimes refer to ourselves as “LANNON” (a combination of our names). We even have disgustingly cute matching friendship tattoos that we got last year: L has a pink-frosted doughnut to represent me, and I have an orange-frosted doughnut on my right arm to represent them. In the Instagram post L made after visiting me, someone in the comments even wished us a “happy LANNON decade!” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There just aren’t enough words to describe how stupidly lucky I am to have someone in my life who makes that life so much brighter and fun. We may no longer be the same Captain America-loving (L) and \u003cem>Pretty Little Liars\u003c/em>-obsessed (me) college kids we once were, but we’ve been, and will continue to be, together for all of our rebirths and revivals, through new hair colors, music obsessions and other lifestyle changes. The future is something that still haunts me when I think deeply about it, but at least I won’t have to face it alone. As 2024 comes to a close, I feel less scared and more excited to step into a new decade with L by my side, to see where and how we’ll continue to grow together. \u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n June, after a three-decade rest, I started playing the piano again. I like to imagine the years of sheet music marking the time between 1995 and now. They show a repeated, interminable black bar, measure after measure of counted-out anticipation. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In high school, I switched to percussion in the school orchestra mainly because it was easy, and let me spend extra time with my more musically accomplished friends. When not crashing cymbals, ringing a triangle or pounding on kettle drums, much of my time in orchestra was spent in this way: waiting out measure after measure of rests. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But 29 years? Even \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/4%E2%80%B233%E2%80%B3\">John Cage\u003c/a> would never. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The desire to break that sustained silence came from a feeling that if I didn’t add something like piano to my life, everything might keep being totally fine, but also \u003ci>the same\u003c/i> forever. So here I am, lifting the cover, pulling up my little bench and hovering my hands over the black and white keys. My piano lessons are 30 minutes once a week at the \u003ca href=\"https://sfcmc.org/\">Community Music Center\u003c/a> in the Mission. I walk over after work, carrying \u003ci>Adult Piano Adventures Book 2\u003c/i> and humming my practiced assignments. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s me and a small army of children roaming the music center’s campus, a recently expanded complex of two Victorians stuffed with practice rooms, offices and a recital hall. The other adults are mostly instructors, staff and parents. I love the bustle. It’s as cacophonous as you would imagine: irregular taps on snare drums, shrill woodwinds piercing closed doors, jazz ensembles stopping and starting sporadically. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with getting a check mark from my teacher on a well-performed piece (emotionally, I am still 10, it seems), one of the things I enjoy most in these weekly sessions is talking out musical notation with him, wrapping my head around keys, chords and their variations. I want to understand this rediscovered language of symbols, its rules and conventions. At home, I lose myself in hours of practice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This, I’ll admit, is somewhat new for me. I have not always been the best at sticking with the harder stuff. As a sporty kid with good eye-hand coordination, I expected all things in life to come to me as easily as basketball and softball did. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I barely remember practicing the piano in elementary school. I definitely remember barely practicing percussion in high school. Academically, languages, especially, did not click — and I failed to work at them. I ditched French as soon as I could in high school, picking up statistics as a far more agreeable extra math credit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For some reason — age, or the pressure of a significant monetary commitment — it’s different this time around. To go from plunking around awkwardly, feeling out a piece, to faithfully (if slowly) performing it all the way through brings me an immense sense of accomplishment. Every week, I thrill at my check mark. But I also don’t \u003ci>need\u003c/i> the check. The pleasure of practicing, of marking my own progress, is, as hokey as it sounds, its own reward. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>None of this is really a surprise. Studies show that engaging in artistic, expressive hobbies has clear mental health benefits. And yet much of my life has been shaped by narrowly focused professionalism. I am a professional arts writer and a professional visual artist. I take pride in doing these things well — and working hard to do them better. Sometimes I feel like even to have those \u003ci>two\u003c/i> identities is holding me back in one or the other field. Should I narrow my focus even more? \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Amateurism is freeing. Bumbling along, learning a skill, recognizing the vast distance between your current abilities and wherever you might want to be in the future adds an immeasurable richness to daily life. Not only does it give me something to talk to people about (“I started taking piano lessons!”), it breaks me out of the monotony of what can sometimes feel like a plateaued mid-life existence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m not sure where my piano lessons will take me, or how long this particular musical interlude will last. But I do know that tonight I’ll sit down at my electric piano and simply … play.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n June, after a three-decade rest, I started playing the piano again. I like to imagine the years of sheet music marking the time between 1995 and now. They show a repeated, interminable black bar, measure after measure of counted-out anticipation. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In high school, I switched to percussion in the school orchestra mainly because it was easy, and let me spend extra time with my more musically accomplished friends. When not crashing cymbals, ringing a triangle or pounding on kettle drums, much of my time in orchestra was spent in this way: waiting out measure after measure of rests. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But 29 years? Even \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/4%E2%80%B233%E2%80%B3\">John Cage\u003c/a> would never. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The desire to break that sustained silence came from a feeling that if I didn’t add something like piano to my life, everything might keep being totally fine, but also \u003ci>the same\u003c/i> forever. So here I am, lifting the cover, pulling up my little bench and hovering my hands over the black and white keys. My piano lessons are 30 minutes once a week at the \u003ca href=\"https://sfcmc.org/\">Community Music Center\u003c/a> in the Mission. I walk over after work, carrying \u003ci>Adult Piano Adventures Book 2\u003c/i> and humming my practiced assignments. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s me and a small army of children roaming the music center’s campus, a recently expanded complex of two Victorians stuffed with practice rooms, offices and a recital hall. The other adults are mostly instructors, staff and parents. I love the bustle. It’s as cacophonous as you would imagine: irregular taps on snare drums, shrill woodwinds piercing closed doors, jazz ensembles stopping and starting sporadically. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with getting a check mark from my teacher on a well-performed piece (emotionally, I am still 10, it seems), one of the things I enjoy most in these weekly sessions is talking out musical notation with him, wrapping my head around keys, chords and their variations. I want to understand this rediscovered language of symbols, its rules and conventions. At home, I lose myself in hours of practice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This, I’ll admit, is somewhat new for me. I have not always been the best at sticking with the harder stuff. As a sporty kid with good eye-hand coordination, I expected all things in life to come to me as easily as basketball and softball did. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I barely remember practicing the piano in elementary school. I definitely remember barely practicing percussion in high school. Academically, languages, especially, did not click — and I failed to work at them. I ditched French as soon as I could in high school, picking up statistics as a far more agreeable extra math credit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For some reason — age, or the pressure of a significant monetary commitment — it’s different this time around. To go from plunking around awkwardly, feeling out a piece, to faithfully (if slowly) performing it all the way through brings me an immense sense of accomplishment. Every week, I thrill at my check mark. But I also don’t \u003ci>need\u003c/i> the check. The pleasure of practicing, of marking my own progress, is, as hokey as it sounds, its own reward. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>None of this is really a surprise. Studies show that engaging in artistic, expressive hobbies has clear mental health benefits. And yet much of my life has been shaped by narrowly focused professionalism. I am a professional arts writer and a professional visual artist. I take pride in doing these things well — and working hard to do them better. Sometimes I feel like even to have those \u003ci>two\u003c/i> identities is holding me back in one or the other field. Should I narrow my focus even more? \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Amateurism is freeing. Bumbling along, learning a skill, recognizing the vast distance between your current abilities and wherever you might want to be in the future adds an immeasurable richness to daily life. Not only does it give me something to talk to people about (“I started taking piano lessons!”), it breaks me out of the monotony of what can sometimes feel like a plateaued mid-life existence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m not sure where my piano lessons will take me, or how long this particular musical interlude will last. But I do know that tonight I’ll sit down at my electric piano and simply … play.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2022, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year. Here, in a year of endless freeway commutes and big-city gridlock, correspondent Pendarvis Harshaw honors the spiritual regeneration of a well-timed sunset.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">S\u003c/span>omeone asks you the best place to watch a sunset in Northern California, what do you say?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Driving down I-80 after leaving Tahoe? Sitting on a beach in Monterey? Pulled over somewhere on Hwy. 1, watching that big burning ball in the sky skinny dip into the Pacific?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_-160x184.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"160\" height=\"184\" class=\"alignright size-thumbnail wp-image-13833985\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_-160x184.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_.jpg 180w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 160px) 100vw, 160px\">This year alone, I’ve seen the sunset from the fishing pier in Benicia, and Lone Tree Point in Rodeo. Have you ever been to San Jose’s Alviso Marina? With its wetlands, wide array of birds and murky waves, it’s like another world during the evening hours.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of my personal top five favorite spots is the east side of Lake Merritt; I love watching the pelicans dive into the water as the sun dips behind the Alameda County Courthouse. And quiet as it’s kept, another personal favorite is the McDonalds parking lot on the hillside of Vallejo’s Magazine Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This place we call home has so many large bodies of water, changes in elevation, amazing displays of architecture, and evenings of pleasant weather that you really can’t go wrong when it comes to a Northern California sunset. You could literally pull over at the intersection of Road 104 and Road 35 in Davis, among the cows, and fall in love with the colors of the sky.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13922295\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-800x587.jpg\" alt=\"The sun disappears behind the plains of Central California, the sky a burnt amber and blue\" width=\"800\" height=\"587\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13922295\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-800x587.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-1020x748.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-160x117.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-768x563.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-1536x1127.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset.jpg 1885w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The view after pulling over at Road 104 and Road 35 in Davis, among the cows. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>he most memorable sunset of my year, though, involves an unfortunate carjacking on the Bay Bridge, a much-needed conversation about the under-recognized legacy of San Francisco gangsta rap, and getting blasted by sand on Ocean Beach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The story starts in a boutique hip-hop clothing shop in San Francisco’s Lakeview neighborhood. Varsity jackets and colorful hoodies line one wall, while the other bears a mural painted by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13916721/sucka-free-history-with-dregs-one\">Dregs One\u003c/a>. It’s a collage of Bay Area rappers who’ve transitioned to ancestor-hood. I’m in the middle of the store chopping it up with the shop owner, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cellski415/?hl=en\">Cellski\u003c/a>, a San Francisco rap icon whose career spans four decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s telling me about the history of rappers and dope dealers in the City. That leads to a conversation about Chemical Baby, Cellski’s clothing line, a name inspired by the toxic dirt and water found in his community, as well as the drugs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13922284\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-1020x1360.jpg\" alt=\"San Francisco hip-hop legend Cellski, at his boutique clothing store in Lakeview.\" width=\"640\" height=\"853\" class=\"size-large wp-image-13922284\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-1536x2048.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-scaled.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">San Francisco hip-hop legend Cellski at his boutique clothing store in Lakeview. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We talk about some of his upcoming plans, and then I shake his hand and head toward the door, ready to drive back to Sacramento. He warns me about traffic. On top of the usual 5 p.m. gridlock, apparently there’d been\u003ca href=\"https://www.kron4.com/news/bay-area/chp-looks-for-armed-carjacking-suspect-on-bay-bridge/\"> a carjacking on the Bay Bridge\u003c/a> earlier that day, and The City was a shitshow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I decide to kill time by grabbing a slice from Northgate Pizza and hitting Ocean Beach. That’s where I messed up. The wind and sand combined to drop a diss track that my car still hasn’t recovered from. The song goes: “Sand in my beard and in my Thermos / Sand all over my clothes and my epidermis.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Beach trip truncated and traffic still a mess, I decide on an alternate route: across the Golden Gate Bridge, up 101 and over Hwy. 37 from Novato to Vallejo. From there, I figure, I can catch 80 and bypass the gridlock as I head back to Sac — and I get more than I bargained for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13922300\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-800x590.jpg\" alt=\"The sun sets behind the skyline of Oakland's downtown with Lake Merritt in the foreground\" width=\"800\" height=\"590\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13922300\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-800x590.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-1020x752.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-160x118.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-768x566.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-1536x1133.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-2048x1510.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-1920x1416.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lake Merritt, Oakland’s jewel. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>he afternoon conversation with the Lakeview lyricist inspired my evening playlist. I slap a couple tracks from Cellski, then 11/5, Cougnut, and an RBL Posse track or two. With early- to mid-’90s Frisco gangsta rap blasting through the speakers of my midsize hybrid, I hit Hwy. 37 right at golden hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Driving east, the sunset in my rearview, I watch as the spring sky turns beaming, brilliant shades of Baskin-Robbins Rainbow Sherbet and Starburst Passion Fruit purple.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California State Route 37 is low-lying, two-lane highway that runs along the northern edge of San Pablo Bay. It’s surrounded by marshy wetlands and a series of sloughs, as well as the Napa River. The water ripples up right next to the road. The cautious mind wonders \u003ca href=\"https://www.pressdemocrat.com/article/news/highway-37-could-be-under-water-decades-from-now-heres-caltrans-solution/\">how long this infrastructure will hold against rising tides\u003c/a>. The imaginative mind feels like it’s riding atop the waves of the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the present mind enjoys the classic SF gangsta rap reverberating through the stock sound system as the sun sets in my rearview mirror. \u003cem>There’s a bluebird on my shoulder, should I kill it?\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With all the photos I’ve taken of sunsets this year, that’s the one I didn’t take. Probably safer to take a pass on getting a pixelated image of a gigantic star burning 91 million miles away, while driving 70 miles per hour on a giant rotating rock. (It would’ve been really, really pretty tho.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reflecting on this year and all the sunsets I’ve seen, so many of them were background visuals for my lengthy commute. Every once in a while, I’d get to a specific spot, face toward the west, and watch nature’s daily magic happen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And yet my most memorable sunset of the year, I watched as I drove in the opposite direction. How lucky are we? There are so many beautiful places to watch the sunset here in the Bay Area that we can literally turn our back, and it’s still one of the prettiest sights in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2022, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year. Here, in a year of endless freeway commutes and big-city gridlock, correspondent Pendarvis Harshaw honors the spiritual regeneration of a well-timed sunset.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">S\u003c/span>omeone asks you the best place to watch a sunset in Northern California, what do you say?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Driving down I-80 after leaving Tahoe? Sitting on a beach in Monterey? Pulled over somewhere on Hwy. 1, watching that big burning ball in the sky skinny dip into the Pacific?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_-160x184.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"160\" height=\"184\" class=\"alignright size-thumbnail wp-image-13833985\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_-160x184.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_.jpg 180w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 160px) 100vw, 160px\">This year alone, I’ve seen the sunset from the fishing pier in Benicia, and Lone Tree Point in Rodeo. Have you ever been to San Jose’s Alviso Marina? With its wetlands, wide array of birds and murky waves, it’s like another world during the evening hours.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of my personal top five favorite spots is the east side of Lake Merritt; I love watching the pelicans dive into the water as the sun dips behind the Alameda County Courthouse. And quiet as it’s kept, another personal favorite is the McDonalds parking lot on the hillside of Vallejo’s Magazine Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This place we call home has so many large bodies of water, changes in elevation, amazing displays of architecture, and evenings of pleasant weather that you really can’t go wrong when it comes to a Northern California sunset. You could literally pull over at the intersection of Road 104 and Road 35 in Davis, among the cows, and fall in love with the colors of the sky.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13922295\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-800x587.jpg\" alt=\"The sun disappears behind the plains of Central California, the sky a burnt amber and blue\" width=\"800\" height=\"587\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13922295\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-800x587.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-1020x748.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-160x117.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-768x563.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset-1536x1127.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Davis.Sunset.jpg 1885w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The view after pulling over at Road 104 and Road 35 in Davis, among the cows. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>he most memorable sunset of my year, though, involves an unfortunate carjacking on the Bay Bridge, a much-needed conversation about the under-recognized legacy of San Francisco gangsta rap, and getting blasted by sand on Ocean Beach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The story starts in a boutique hip-hop clothing shop in San Francisco’s Lakeview neighborhood. Varsity jackets and colorful hoodies line one wall, while the other bears a mural painted by \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13916721/sucka-free-history-with-dregs-one\">Dregs One\u003c/a>. It’s a collage of Bay Area rappers who’ve transitioned to ancestor-hood. I’m in the middle of the store chopping it up with the shop owner, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/cellski415/?hl=en\">Cellski\u003c/a>, a San Francisco rap icon whose career spans four decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s telling me about the history of rappers and dope dealers in the City. That leads to a conversation about Chemical Baby, Cellski’s clothing line, a name inspired by the toxic dirt and water found in his community, as well as the drugs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13922284\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-1020x1360.jpg\" alt=\"San Francisco hip-hop legend Cellski, at his boutique clothing store in Lakeview.\" width=\"640\" height=\"853\" class=\"size-large wp-image-13922284\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-1536x2048.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/IMG_8555-scaled.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">San Francisco hip-hop legend Cellski at his boutique clothing store in Lakeview. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We talk about some of his upcoming plans, and then I shake his hand and head toward the door, ready to drive back to Sacramento. He warns me about traffic. On top of the usual 5 p.m. gridlock, apparently there’d been\u003ca href=\"https://www.kron4.com/news/bay-area/chp-looks-for-armed-carjacking-suspect-on-bay-bridge/\"> a carjacking on the Bay Bridge\u003c/a> earlier that day, and The City was a shitshow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I decide to kill time by grabbing a slice from Northgate Pizza and hitting Ocean Beach. That’s where I messed up. The wind and sand combined to drop a diss track that my car still hasn’t recovered from. The song goes: “Sand in my beard and in my Thermos / Sand all over my clothes and my epidermis.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Beach trip truncated and traffic still a mess, I decide on an alternate route: across the Golden Gate Bridge, up 101 and over Hwy. 37 from Novato to Vallejo. From there, I figure, I can catch 80 and bypass the gridlock as I head back to Sac — and I get more than I bargained for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13922300\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-800x590.jpg\" alt=\"The sun sets behind the skyline of Oakland's downtown with Lake Merritt in the foreground\" width=\"800\" height=\"590\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13922300\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-800x590.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-1020x752.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-160x118.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-768x566.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-1536x1133.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-2048x1510.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/LakeMerrit.Sunset.1-1920x1416.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lake Merritt, Oakland’s jewel. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>he afternoon conversation with the Lakeview lyricist inspired my evening playlist. I slap a couple tracks from Cellski, then 11/5, Cougnut, and an RBL Posse track or two. With early- to mid-’90s Frisco gangsta rap blasting through the speakers of my midsize hybrid, I hit Hwy. 37 right at golden hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Driving east, the sunset in my rearview, I watch as the spring sky turns beaming, brilliant shades of Baskin-Robbins Rainbow Sherbet and Starburst Passion Fruit purple.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California State Route 37 is low-lying, two-lane highway that runs along the northern edge of San Pablo Bay. It’s surrounded by marshy wetlands and a series of sloughs, as well as the Napa River. The water ripples up right next to the road. The cautious mind wonders \u003ca href=\"https://www.pressdemocrat.com/article/news/highway-37-could-be-under-water-decades-from-now-heres-caltrans-solution/\">how long this infrastructure will hold against rising tides\u003c/a>. The imaginative mind feels like it’s riding atop the waves of the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the present mind enjoys the classic SF gangsta rap reverberating through the stock sound system as the sun sets in my rearview mirror. \u003cem>There’s a bluebird on my shoulder, should I kill it?\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With all the photos I’ve taken of sunsets this year, that’s the one I didn’t take. Probably safer to take a pass on getting a pixelated image of a gigantic star burning 91 million miles away, while driving 70 miles per hour on a giant rotating rock. (It would’ve been really, really pretty tho.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reflecting on this year and all the sunsets I’ve seen, so many of them were background visuals for my lengthy commute. Every once in a while, I’d get to a specific spot, face toward the west, and watch nature’s daily magic happen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And yet my most memorable sunset of the year, I watched as I drove in the opposite direction. How lucky are we? There are so many beautiful places to watch the sunset here in the Bay Area that we can literally turn our back, and it’s still one of the prettiest sights in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "My Taxi Driver Was a Hero When I Needed It Most",
"headTitle": "My Taxi Driver Was a Hero When I Needed It Most | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2022, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year. Here, recounting a seemingly hopeless quest to retrieve a lost bag in New York City, editor Gabe Meline remains in awe at the kindness of strangers.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>here I was, in a city of 8 million people, after 12 hours of travel, standing on Lexington Avenue and hoping for a New York miracle. I’d only been in Manhattan for an hour, and already I was flagging down a taxi late at night and shouting “Follow that cab!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignright size-thumbnail wp-image-13881659\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2020/06/Gabe.Bio_.Cap_.small_-160x181.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"160\" height=\"181\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/06/Gabe.Bio_.Cap_.small_-160x181.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/06/Gabe.Bio_.Cap_.small_.jpg 180w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 160px) 100vw, 160px\">Well, more accurately: “Follow that little dot on this tiny map.” Meaning the GPS-enabled dot moving around a screen as part of the Find My iPhone feature. The dot indicating that somewhere out there, in one of New York City’s other 13,000 taxi cabs, sat my daughter’s blue bag that she’d left behind, containing her diary, school laptop, notebooks, iPhone and AirPods she’d bought with her saved-up allowance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The daughter who at that very moment was curled up on the hotel bed, regretting her thoughtlessness, in tears.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was a small-town dad in a huge, unfamiliar metropolis, with maybe half an idea of what I was doing, at best. But I couldn’t stand to see her crying. I had to get that bag back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>An explanation is in order: at the airport terminal, we’d had to switch to another taxicab to get a ride into Manhattan. Our first taxi driver quoted us a fare higher than what dispatch told us it should cost, and when I asked why, he promptly threw us out of his cab. He and I exchanged some four-letter words, and we piled into the next waiting taxi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t until getting to our hotel, an hour later, that we realized the first taxi driver had sped away with the bag inside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13922261\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/taxi.nyc_.bag_.jpg\" alt=\"a blue handbag, sitting against a white linen background\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/taxi.nyc_.bag_.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/taxi.nyc_.bag_-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I called Central Taxi Hold at JFK for help. “You got the medallion number?” the director asked. I didn’t. “Well, tell us the credit card number you used for your fare, and we can trace the medallion number,” he said. No dice: we hadn’t ridden in the taxi, let alone paid any fare. “Oh, well then… you may be waitin’ for it to turn up in lost and found. \u003cem>If\u003c/em> he turns it in, that is.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While I called 311, my wife remembered she’d set up tracking on our daughter’s phone in case of emergencies, and pulled up its map, excited to discover a little dot that refreshed every 15 seconds or so, traveling around the streets of midtown. Talking to the woman working 311, after we’d exhausted all possible options, I offhandedly remarked, “I’m half-tempted to get another cab and have them chase after this dot on the map.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Well,” she said, “that’s probably what a New Yorker would do.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Challenge accepted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13922258\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/NYC.taxi_.map_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/NYC.taxi_.map_.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/NYC.taxi_.map_-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>he first taxi driver that pulled over laughed at my wild goose chase, but the second said, “Yeah. Get in.” His name was Gani. And so began our three-hour hunt for the missing bag.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a couple rounds in Manhattan, we followed the dot across the Queensboro Bridge into Queens. All the way back to JFK. We scanned the traffic around us and closely trailed the dot as our getaway taxi driver bypassed Central Taxi Hold, went straight to a terminal, picked up a fare, and — to my despair — quickly got on the freeway and headed again into Manhattan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was carsick from staring at a phone, and operating on three hours of sleep the night before. I texted my wife and daughter: “If we can’t catch him in Manhattan I may have to give up for the night. I can’t go all the way out to JFK again.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13922256\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Texts.nyc_.taxi_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"491\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Texts.nyc_.taxi_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Texts.nyc_.taxi_-160x98.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Texts.nyc_.taxi_-768x471.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gani had other plans. Up to that point, our conversation had been about how to intercept the cab. I learned all about New York’s taxicab regulations, many of which our getaway cab driver was brazenly ignoring, which didn’t fill me with hope.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But while driving around Manhattan for the second time, Gani asked about my daughter. “She’s 13,” I said. Old enough that she doesn’t cry anymore, I said. Except for tonight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I looked up and noticed that the fare meter wasn’t running anymore. The dot on the map headed across the Queensboro Bridge yet again, and Gani followed. I assured him that it was OK to call it a night and drop me off at the hotel, but he wasn’t having it. “We will get your bag back,” he said confidently, pulling onto the bridge onramp. “We should be able to stop him at the airport this time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We did not stop him at the airport.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">B\u003c/span>ut we did happen to spot a good luck omen when we returned to JFK, outside an airport terminal: the woman who’d been working dispatch two hours earlier. Gani jerked the steering wheel to pull over while I quickly hopped out, pen and notebook in hand, to barrage her with questions. Did she remember us, having to switch cabs? Did she know the driver? Could she tell us anything to help get our bag back?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In short order, we had the cab driver’s phone number and medallion number. Central Taxi Hold ran the number, and discovered that he wasn’t even supposed to be on the clock that night. Probably working side jobs and illegally pocketing the fares.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With renewed vigor, Gani again followed the dot as it moved along the freeway, back toward Manhattan for the second time since our chase began. We called the phone number repeatedly — no answer. This rogue taxi driver was clearly avoiding us; he’d had our bag for five hours, and seemed to have no intention of turning it in to lost and found.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gani tried another tact via text: “We have your medallion number and we know where you are.” He picked up our next call. And so, just when I had lost all faith, it was over in a flash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At around midnight on 34th and 1st, the runaway cab driver pulled over, handed us the bag, and drove off. I checked the contents; all there. Incredible. Out of all the far-fetched, improbable plans, ours had actually worked. “I … I can’t believe that really happened,” I muttered from the passenger seat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gani just laughed — and, slapping his palm on the steering wheel, announced: “Welcome to New York!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13922257\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13922257\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Nyc.Taxi_.finale.jpg\" alt=\"A man and a teenage girl, holding a small blue bag, pose together outside a yellow taxicab on the busy streets on New York City\" width=\"600\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Nyc.Taxi_.finale.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Nyc.Taxi_.finale-160x213.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gani and the author’s daughter, reunited at last with her lost bag. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2022, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/one-beautiful-thing\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">One Beautiful Thing\u003c/a> from the year. Here, recounting a seemingly hopeless quest to retrieve a lost bag in New York City, editor Gabe Meline remains in awe at the kindness of strangers.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>here I was, in a city of 8 million people, after 12 hours of travel, standing on Lexington Avenue and hoping for a New York miracle. I’d only been in Manhattan for an hour, and already I was flagging down a taxi late at night and shouting “Follow that cab!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignright size-thumbnail wp-image-13881659\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2020/06/Gabe.Bio_.Cap_.small_-160x181.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"160\" height=\"181\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/06/Gabe.Bio_.Cap_.small_-160x181.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/06/Gabe.Bio_.Cap_.small_.jpg 180w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 160px) 100vw, 160px\">Well, more accurately: “Follow that little dot on this tiny map.” Meaning the GPS-enabled dot moving around a screen as part of the Find My iPhone feature. The dot indicating that somewhere out there, in one of New York City’s other 13,000 taxi cabs, sat my daughter’s blue bag that she’d left behind, containing her diary, school laptop, notebooks, iPhone and AirPods she’d bought with her saved-up allowance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The daughter who at that very moment was curled up on the hotel bed, regretting her thoughtlessness, in tears.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was a small-town dad in a huge, unfamiliar metropolis, with maybe half an idea of what I was doing, at best. But I couldn’t stand to see her crying. I had to get that bag back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>An explanation is in order: at the airport terminal, we’d had to switch to another taxicab to get a ride into Manhattan. Our first taxi driver quoted us a fare higher than what dispatch told us it should cost, and when I asked why, he promptly threw us out of his cab. He and I exchanged some four-letter words, and we piled into the next waiting taxi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t until getting to our hotel, an hour later, that we realized the first taxi driver had sped away with the bag inside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13922261\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/taxi.nyc_.bag_.jpg\" alt=\"a blue handbag, sitting against a white linen background\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/taxi.nyc_.bag_.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/taxi.nyc_.bag_-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I called Central Taxi Hold at JFK for help. “You got the medallion number?” the director asked. I didn’t. “Well, tell us the credit card number you used for your fare, and we can trace the medallion number,” he said. No dice: we hadn’t ridden in the taxi, let alone paid any fare. “Oh, well then… you may be waitin’ for it to turn up in lost and found. \u003cem>If\u003c/em> he turns it in, that is.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While I called 311, my wife remembered she’d set up tracking on our daughter’s phone in case of emergencies, and pulled up its map, excited to discover a little dot that refreshed every 15 seconds or so, traveling around the streets of midtown. Talking to the woman working 311, after we’d exhausted all possible options, I offhandedly remarked, “I’m half-tempted to get another cab and have them chase after this dot on the map.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Well,” she said, “that’s probably what a New Yorker would do.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Challenge accepted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13922258\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/NYC.taxi_.map_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/NYC.taxi_.map_.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/NYC.taxi_.map_-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">T\u003c/span>he first taxi driver that pulled over laughed at my wild goose chase, but the second said, “Yeah. Get in.” His name was Gani. And so began our three-hour hunt for the missing bag.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a couple rounds in Manhattan, we followed the dot across the Queensboro Bridge into Queens. All the way back to JFK. We scanned the traffic around us and closely trailed the dot as our getaway taxi driver bypassed Central Taxi Hold, went straight to a terminal, picked up a fare, and — to my despair — quickly got on the freeway and headed again into Manhattan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was carsick from staring at a phone, and operating on three hours of sleep the night before. I texted my wife and daughter: “If we can’t catch him in Manhattan I may have to give up for the night. I can’t go all the way out to JFK again.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13922256\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Texts.nyc_.taxi_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"491\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Texts.nyc_.taxi_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Texts.nyc_.taxi_-160x98.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Texts.nyc_.taxi_-768x471.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gani had other plans. Up to that point, our conversation had been about how to intercept the cab. I learned all about New York’s taxicab regulations, many of which our getaway cab driver was brazenly ignoring, which didn’t fill me with hope.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But while driving around Manhattan for the second time, Gani asked about my daughter. “She’s 13,” I said. Old enough that she doesn’t cry anymore, I said. Except for tonight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I looked up and noticed that the fare meter wasn’t running anymore. The dot on the map headed across the Queensboro Bridge yet again, and Gani followed. I assured him that it was OK to call it a night and drop me off at the hotel, but he wasn’t having it. “We will get your bag back,” he said confidently, pulling onto the bridge onramp. “We should be able to stop him at the airport this time.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We did not stop him at the airport.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">B\u003c/span>ut we did happen to spot a good luck omen when we returned to JFK, outside an airport terminal: the woman who’d been working dispatch two hours earlier. Gani jerked the steering wheel to pull over while I quickly hopped out, pen and notebook in hand, to barrage her with questions. Did she remember us, having to switch cabs? Did she know the driver? Could she tell us anything to help get our bag back?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In short order, we had the cab driver’s phone number and medallion number. Central Taxi Hold ran the number, and discovered that he wasn’t even supposed to be on the clock that night. Probably working side jobs and illegally pocketing the fares.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With renewed vigor, Gani again followed the dot as it moved along the freeway, back toward Manhattan for the second time since our chase began. We called the phone number repeatedly — no answer. This rogue taxi driver was clearly avoiding us; he’d had our bag for five hours, and seemed to have no intention of turning it in to lost and found.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gani tried another tact via text: “We have your medallion number and we know where you are.” He picked up our next call. And so, just when I had lost all faith, it was over in a flash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At around midnight on 34th and 1st, the runaway cab driver pulled over, handed us the bag, and drove off. I checked the contents; all there. Incredible. Out of all the far-fetched, improbable plans, ours had actually worked. “I … I can’t believe that really happened,” I muttered from the passenger seat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gani just laughed — and, slapping his palm on the steering wheel, announced: “Welcome to New York!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13922257\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13922257\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Nyc.Taxi_.finale.jpg\" alt=\"A man and a teenage girl, holding a small blue bag, pose together outside a yellow taxicab on the busy streets on New York City\" width=\"600\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Nyc.Taxi_.finale.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2022/12/Nyc.Taxi_.finale-160x213.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gani and the author’s daughter, reunited at last with her lost bag. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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