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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11028547\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach.jpg\" alt=\"With my favorite boombox, circa 1984.\" width=\"640\" height=\"640\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11028547\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach.jpg 640w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-400x400.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-600x600.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-32x32.jpg 32w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-64x64.jpg 64w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-96x96.jpg 96w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-128x128.jpg 128w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-75x75.jpg 75w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The author with his favorite boombox, circa 1984.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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]T[/dropcap]oday, you read the words of a man who’s turned 50. More time behind me than ahead. More \u003cem>music\u003c/em> behind me than ahead. And less time to listen to it all. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Is that the goal? To listen to every bit of music ever made? When I survey my life, as one does when they turn 50, it resembles the hopeless quest of a quixotic imbecile. Shows, record stores, clubs, arenas, thrift stores, warehouses, concert halls. \u003cem>What can I hear that I haven’t yet heard\u003c/em>?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In October of this year, right before I turned 50, that question inspired a road trip. From Seattle to Los Angeles, I followed the British electronic duo Autechre on tour, alone. Seven shows in five days. A present to myself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d never followed anyone on tour before. Autechre is \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/ev3vENli7wQ?si=ySdObHsY2AHTa-y0\">aggressively exploratory\u003c/a>, though, and improvises their sets each night, so I knew it’d be an adventure on multiple levels. Certainly, I’d hear something I hadn’t yet heard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was a little overwhelmed at their first Seattle show, but five nights later, I had become so accustomed to Autechre’s abstract musical language that my entire psyche locked in step with their frenetic rhythms. There I was, at a theater in downtown L.A., soaring above it all, understanding, anticipating, reacting, and dancing and dancing and dancing. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, I came out of it a changed person. When you’re a teenager, you can be changed by music on a weekly basis, in your room, with just a pair of headphones. I had to take a two-hour flight and drive solo for 1,564 miles to get the same sensation. But at 50, I’ll take what I can get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984881\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1461px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle.jpg\" alt=\"Red lights shine on a crowd seen in backlit silhouettes, with a stage in the distance\" width=\"1461\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984881\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle.jpg 1461w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle-160x219.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle-768x1051.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle-1122x1536.jpg 1122w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1461px) 100vw, 1461px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In Seattle, awaiting the first of seven Autechre shows.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As I \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11027790/keep-listening-notes-on-turning-40-and-still-seeking-out-new-music\">wrote when I turned 40\u003c/a>, music has been the single most constant presence in my life, with the possible exception of air. I’m still not sure which is more important. And while I relentlessly pursue new sounds, I do occasionally allow myself the comfort of nostalgia. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11027790/keep-listening-notes-on-turning-40-and-still-seeking-out-new-music\">don’t like to do this\u003c/a>, you know. As a rule, I don’t listen to the music I liked when I was young. I don’t like using streaming. But driving alone down the West Coast, with hundreds of miles ahead of me and 50 years behind, it felt right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I listened to the Deele’s “Two Occasions,” which I slow-danced to at Comstock Junior High dances. Eric B. and Rakim’s “Paid in Full,” which my cousin and I memorized from a tape full of hiss. “Dark Ages” by Nomeansno, which vaporized my brain when they played in Guerneville. “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” which my homecoming date sang to me, cementing a lifelong relationship with Frank Sinatra and the Great American Songbook. Merle Haggard’s paean to the open road, “Silver Wings,” which I first heard on tour from a truck stop cassette in Texas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people have to wait a lifetime to see their life flash before their eyes. Here I was in Olympia, and Medford, and Buttonwillow, having the same experience. I played “All My Trials,” and traveled back to singing in the choir at Piner High. Mac Dre’s “Stupid Doo Doo Dumb,” from seeing him in Petaluma before he left us and became a deity. “A Rainy Night in Soho,” the Pogues song my wife and I danced to at our wedding reception.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And on and on and on. UGK, the Clark Sisters, Grouper, Smokey Robinson. Every song a marker of time, of memory, of place. Others share this experience with books, or movies. Some of us, the really lucky ones, have it with friends. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After returning from my road trip, I got a call that one of those friends had died. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984882\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 700px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/a3297230513_16.jpg\" alt=\"A young man wearing headphones looks into the camera and smiles while holding piece of paper with lyrics on it\" width=\"700\" height=\"700\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984882\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/a3297230513_16.jpg 700w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/a3297230513_16-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 700px) 100vw, 700px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jack Springs, also known as Jack Attack, during a recording session in Petaluma.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>I first met Jack Springs when he was 24 and lived in a group home. He’d been born with intellectual disabilities, “but more high-functional,” as he put it. He also had ADHD. Growing up in a special ed program in Lake County, his schoolmates often played cruel practical jokes on him, shoved his head in the toilet and beat him up after school. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d wanted to meet Jack because I’d heard a CD-R he recorded to release that pain. Christening himself \u003ca href=\"https://jack-attack.bandcamp.com/\">Jack Attack\u003c/a>, and over a death metal backing track, he screamed in song after song about \u003ca href=\"https://jack-attack.bandcamp.com/track/violated-days-part-4\">rising above and reclaiming his rights from his tormentors\u003c/a>. “You are face to face with me! You will pay for everything that you have done to me!” \u003ca href=\"https://jack-attack.bandcamp.com/track/violated-knights-part-3\">one of them went\u003c/a>. “And the wicked life you live will not set you free! And that is it! For the violated nights!” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I found Jack at the supermarket where he worked rounding up shopping carts, and we talked about his life, and how he channeled it into his untrained, unaffected music. After I \u003ca href=\"https://www.metroactive.com/bohemian/03.17.10/music-jack-springs-1011.html\">wrote about him in the local paper\u003c/a>, he gained a small but fervent cult following. He recorded \u003ca href=\"https://jack-attack.bandcamp.com/\">a dozen more albums\u003c/a>, each an honest, bold assertion of self. He even once convinced me to play in his band. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jack’s music was among the most alive, urgent, pure and \u003cem>present\u003c/em> music I’d ever heard. Listening back now that he’s gone, I have to accept that it’s joined all those other songs I listened to on my road trip. It is now music of the past.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>And yet\u003c/em>. Because he made music, because he dared to enter a recording studio and heave his trauma back at the world, Jack Springs from Santa Rosa, California will live forever. There’s no possible way our paths would have ever crossed, let alone led us to make music together, go on drives and talk about life, if he hadn’t picked up a microphone to express himself artistically. His fans would say the same thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He did it for himself, but we all benefitted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984883\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1500\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984883\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418.jpg 1500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418-1152x1536.jpg 1152w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Somewhere in California, October 2025.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It’s a hollow cliché at this point that music brings people together, but sorry, it’s true. The older I get, the more I’m convinced that despite technology’s insidious efforts to separate us, we’re actually inching toward an eventual state of togetherness. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As made clear on my road trip, the more music becomes brushstrokes in the portrait of my life, the more Neil Young’s proclamation that \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/UYMNcILqQV4?si=4F1-GJKlccDSMhDC\">it’s all one song\u003c/a> starts to make sense. All of us are painting our own lives by singing and hearing and playing and listening, driven by impulse, but take a step back and you’ll notice something: We’re also inadvertently creating a communal mural together of what it is to be alive. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And so Jack Attack blends into Gustav Mahler blends into Bob Dylan blends into Liz Phair blends into Drexciya blends into the Avengers blends into Scarface blends into Peggy Lee blends into Gregory Isaacs and on and on and on. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The thing is, I don’t want to stop painting that mural. As Tony Bennett \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/025ClUYbeKs?si=oTz9RaXAixH6tqa6\">once sang\u003c/a>, how do you keep the music playing? Now, with the perspective of being 50, I never want it to end.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11028547\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach.jpg\" alt=\"With my favorite boombox, circa 1984.\" width=\"640\" height=\"640\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11028547\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach.jpg 640w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-400x400.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-600x600.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-32x32.jpg 32w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-64x64.jpg 64w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-96x96.jpg 96w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-128x128.jpg 128w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2015/10/boomboxbeach-75x75.jpg 75w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The author with his favorite boombox, circa 1984.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>oday, you read the words of a man who’s turned 50. More time behind me than ahead. More \u003cem>music\u003c/em> behind me than ahead. And less time to listen to it all. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Is that the goal? To listen to every bit of music ever made? When I survey my life, as one does when they turn 50, it resembles the hopeless quest of a quixotic imbecile. Shows, record stores, clubs, arenas, thrift stores, warehouses, concert halls. \u003cem>What can I hear that I haven’t yet heard\u003c/em>?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In October of this year, right before I turned 50, that question inspired a road trip. From Seattle to Los Angeles, I followed the British electronic duo Autechre on tour, alone. Seven shows in five days. A present to myself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d never followed anyone on tour before. Autechre is \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/ev3vENli7wQ?si=ySdObHsY2AHTa-y0\">aggressively exploratory\u003c/a>, though, and improvises their sets each night, so I knew it’d be an adventure on multiple levels. Certainly, I’d hear something I hadn’t yet heard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was a little overwhelmed at their first Seattle show, but five nights later, I had become so accustomed to Autechre’s abstract musical language that my entire psyche locked in step with their frenetic rhythms. There I was, at a theater in downtown L.A., soaring above it all, understanding, anticipating, reacting, and dancing and dancing and dancing. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, I came out of it a changed person. When you’re a teenager, you can be changed by music on a weekly basis, in your room, with just a pair of headphones. I had to take a two-hour flight and drive solo for 1,564 miles to get the same sensation. But at 50, I’ll take what I can get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984881\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1461px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle.jpg\" alt=\"Red lights shine on a crowd seen in backlit silhouettes, with a stage in the distance\" width=\"1461\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984881\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle.jpg 1461w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle-160x219.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle-768x1051.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Autechre.Seattle-1122x1536.jpg 1122w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1461px) 100vw, 1461px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In Seattle, awaiting the first of seven Autechre shows.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As I \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11027790/keep-listening-notes-on-turning-40-and-still-seeking-out-new-music\">wrote when I turned 40\u003c/a>, music has been the single most constant presence in my life, with the possible exception of air. I’m still not sure which is more important. And while I relentlessly pursue new sounds, I do occasionally allow myself the comfort of nostalgia. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11027790/keep-listening-notes-on-turning-40-and-still-seeking-out-new-music\">don’t like to do this\u003c/a>, you know. As a rule, I don’t listen to the music I liked when I was young. I don’t like using streaming. But driving alone down the West Coast, with hundreds of miles ahead of me and 50 years behind, it felt right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I listened to the Deele’s “Two Occasions,” which I slow-danced to at Comstock Junior High dances. Eric B. and Rakim’s “Paid in Full,” which my cousin and I memorized from a tape full of hiss. “Dark Ages” by Nomeansno, which vaporized my brain when they played in Guerneville. “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” which my homecoming date sang to me, cementing a lifelong relationship with Frank Sinatra and the Great American Songbook. Merle Haggard’s paean to the open road, “Silver Wings,” which I first heard on tour from a truck stop cassette in Texas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people have to wait a lifetime to see their life flash before their eyes. Here I was in Olympia, and Medford, and Buttonwillow, having the same experience. I played “All My Trials,” and traveled back to singing in the choir at Piner High. Mac Dre’s “Stupid Doo Doo Dumb,” from seeing him in Petaluma before he left us and became a deity. “A Rainy Night in Soho,” the Pogues song my wife and I danced to at our wedding reception.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And on and on and on. UGK, the Clark Sisters, Grouper, Smokey Robinson. Every song a marker of time, of memory, of place. Others share this experience with books, or movies. Some of us, the really lucky ones, have it with friends. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After returning from my road trip, I got a call that one of those friends had died. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984882\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 700px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/a3297230513_16.jpg\" alt=\"A young man wearing headphones looks into the camera and smiles while holding piece of paper with lyrics on it\" width=\"700\" height=\"700\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984882\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/a3297230513_16.jpg 700w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/a3297230513_16-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 700px) 100vw, 700px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jack Springs, also known as Jack Attack, during a recording session in Petaluma.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>I first met Jack Springs when he was 24 and lived in a group home. He’d been born with intellectual disabilities, “but more high-functional,” as he put it. He also had ADHD. Growing up in a special ed program in Lake County, his schoolmates often played cruel practical jokes on him, shoved his head in the toilet and beat him up after school. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d wanted to meet Jack because I’d heard a CD-R he recorded to release that pain. Christening himself \u003ca href=\"https://jack-attack.bandcamp.com/\">Jack Attack\u003c/a>, and over a death metal backing track, he screamed in song after song about \u003ca href=\"https://jack-attack.bandcamp.com/track/violated-days-part-4\">rising above and reclaiming his rights from his tormentors\u003c/a>. “You are face to face with me! You will pay for everything that you have done to me!” \u003ca href=\"https://jack-attack.bandcamp.com/track/violated-knights-part-3\">one of them went\u003c/a>. “And the wicked life you live will not set you free! And that is it! For the violated nights!” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I found Jack at the supermarket where he worked rounding up shopping carts, and we talked about his life, and how he channeled it into his untrained, unaffected music. After I \u003ca href=\"https://www.metroactive.com/bohemian/03.17.10/music-jack-springs-1011.html\">wrote about him in the local paper\u003c/a>, he gained a small but fervent cult following. He recorded \u003ca href=\"https://jack-attack.bandcamp.com/\">a dozen more albums\u003c/a>, each an honest, bold assertion of self. He even once convinced me to play in his band. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jack’s music was among the most alive, urgent, pure and \u003cem>present\u003c/em> music I’d ever heard. Listening back now that he’s gone, I have to accept that it’s joined all those other songs I listened to on my road trip. It is now music of the past.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>And yet\u003c/em>. Because he made music, because he dared to enter a recording studio and heave his trauma back at the world, Jack Springs from Santa Rosa, California will live forever. There’s no possible way our paths would have ever crossed, let alone led us to make music together, go on drives and talk about life, if he hadn’t picked up a microphone to express himself artistically. His fans would say the same thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He did it for himself, but we all benefitted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984883\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1500\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984883\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418.jpg 1500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_8418-1152x1536.jpg 1152w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Somewhere in California, October 2025.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It’s a hollow cliché at this point that music brings people together, but sorry, it’s true. The older I get, the more I’m convinced that despite technology’s insidious efforts to separate us, we’re actually inching toward an eventual state of togetherness. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As made clear on my road trip, the more music becomes brushstrokes in the portrait of my life, the more Neil Young’s proclamation that \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/UYMNcILqQV4?si=4F1-GJKlccDSMhDC\">it’s all one song\u003c/a> starts to make sense. All of us are painting our own lives by singing and hearing and playing and listening, driven by impulse, but take a step back and you’ll notice something: We’re also inadvertently creating a communal mural together of what it is to be alive. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And so Jack Attack blends into Gustav Mahler blends into Bob Dylan blends into Liz Phair blends into Drexciya blends into the Avengers blends into Scarface blends into Peggy Lee blends into Gregory Isaacs and on and on and on. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The thing is, I don’t want to stop painting that mural. As Tony Bennett \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/025ClUYbeKs?si=oTz9RaXAixH6tqa6\">once sang\u003c/a>, how do you keep the music playing? Now, with the perspective of being 50, I never want it to end.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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]“Y[/dropcap]ou’re entering your homemaker era,” my mother said earlier this year, mostly joking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She’d been teasing me for finally getting into cooking about 20 years later than I probably should have, as a self-sufficient adult. For too long, I’d done the bare minimum, more of a “combiner” of ingredients than a chef de cuisine. Sometimes, on long walks or bike rides, I’d marvel that I was actually able to keep this body moving and in semi-good order, considering how little care I put into feeding it. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it wasn’t just that I’d graduated from chief dishwasher to chief dinner-maker. My mother was astonished by my mania for darning my household’s socks, something even she — a woman who once sewed her own clothes and makes an incredible beef bourguignon — absolutely does not do. She looked at me as if I might be a pod person.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I didn’t get into darning out of any nesting impulse. It was probably the Oakland artist \u003ca href=\"https://krhoades.com/\">Kate Rhoades\u003c/a> who most inspired me to pick up a needle and thread. Her dedication to visible mending is ad hoc and colorful, a true delight. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kate’s patched and mended clothes have character. And thanks to my very capable mother, I knew how to thread a needle. I watched a YouTube tutorial and made my first attempt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It snowballed from there. I bought a book, mastered the first few approaches and left the more advanced techniques to others. The basket weave is my jam: an orderly, square grid of warp and weft, under and over. It sturdily bridges a hole, buying purchase in undamaged fabric and sealing off loose ends. The fun comes from combinations of colored thread, patches that contrast against the surrounding material, or else the challenge of making a mend as invisible as possible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eventually, I worked my way up to shirts and sweaters. (I’m still building the confidence to mend jeans.) But socks, the original low-stakes testing ground, remain my favorite thing to darn. Thankfully, holey socks are an endlessly renewable resource. As soon as one hole is covered, or a thin zone reinforced, a toe will poke through elsewhere. So long as we wear socks and walk around this hard-crusted city, we will rub away the material that provides comfort and protection, step after step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984769\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000.jpg\" alt=\"objects on green desktop\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984769\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tools of the trade, clockwise from top left: a ‘Speedweve’-like hand loom, a wooden darning egg, a tin of needles and thread, and a trusty soup ladle. \u003ccite>(Sarah Hotchkiss/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This is a hobby that requires very little in the way of equipment. In the early days, I used a soup ladle, stretching socks over the rounded scoop to create a stable surface to stitch against. (While I have been cooking more elaborate dishes, there hasn’t been much soup on the menu.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Material experimentation is inexpensive. I tried out embroidery floss (too thick and brittle), sewing thread (too thin, had to double it up) and eventually landed on bobbins of wool reinforcement thread. Also a favorite: cotton sashiko thread, which comes in variegated strands that add an element of chance to the whole endeavor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As my obsession progressed, I found myself shopping at San Francisco’s \u003ca href=\"https://imagiknit.com/\">ImagiKnit\u003c/a>. A punny business name tells you you’re on the right track: peak enjoyment, zero striving, comfort with the built-in cringe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whenever I finished a darn, I would send close friends pictures of myself grinning maniacally, holding up a socked foot to show off a freshly mended heel. Soon, their accolades via chat weren’t enough. I began talking about my newfound love in public. After I mentioned it in an artist talk, a kind person even gifted me a wooden darning egg, passed down through their family. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The hobby really kicked into high gear with a small, handheld loom, a birthday present from a dear friend. This thing is next level. A darn that might have taken me over an hour is now done in 30 minutes. My mends have gotten tighter, even more uniform. The pile of holey socks dwindles with astonishing rapidity. I find myself inspecting clothes more closely while folding laundry. Is this pocket coming unstitched? Is this heel getting thin? It couldn’t hurt to preemptively reinforce it …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have become, I fear, a bit insufferable. “Look what I did!” I say to my boyfriend, thrusting a sock in his face. “I know. I watched you do it,” he replies. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I desperately want to share with others the personal thrill that comes from completing a mend — of making an unusable thing useful once again. Yet only I am doing that work; the thrill is decidedly nontransferable. What is this impulse, then?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We worry about our screen time, we install app limits and buy Bricks and sign up for \u003ca href=\"https://phonefreefebruary.com/\">Phone-Free February\u003c/a>. We try to distract ourselves from time-sucking, glowing devices by doing things with our hands. In-person experiences are up, workshops are full, people want tangible skills in an intangible world. And darning can absolutely be one of those skills, with the added benefit of keeping clothes in circulation and out of the waste stream. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Darning is also teaching me to enjoy a private, personal satisfaction. Concealed within shoes, undetectable (I hope) to feet, these are functional fixes. Each mend contains its own small beauty, but it’s a beauty glimpsed only by those wearing the socks. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Slowly, I’m getting rid of this impulse to \u003ci>share\u003c/i> it all — she writes, doing just that. Well, two steps forward, one step back. It’s a good thing more friction means more mending.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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\">“Y\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ou’re entering your homemaker era,” my mother said earlier this year, mostly joking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She’d been teasing me for finally getting into cooking about 20 years later than I probably should have, as a self-sufficient adult. For too long, I’d done the bare minimum, more of a “combiner” of ingredients than a chef de cuisine. Sometimes, on long walks or bike rides, I’d marvel that I was actually able to keep this body moving and in semi-good order, considering how little care I put into feeding it. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it wasn’t just that I’d graduated from chief dishwasher to chief dinner-maker. My mother was astonished by my mania for darning my household’s socks, something even she — a woman who once sewed her own clothes and makes an incredible beef bourguignon — absolutely does not do. She looked at me as if I might be a pod person.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I didn’t get into darning out of any nesting impulse. It was probably the Oakland artist \u003ca href=\"https://krhoades.com/\">Kate Rhoades\u003c/a> who most inspired me to pick up a needle and thread. Her dedication to visible mending is ad hoc and colorful, a true delight. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kate’s patched and mended clothes have character. And thanks to my very capable mother, I knew how to thread a needle. I watched a YouTube tutorial and made my first attempt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It snowballed from there. I bought a book, mastered the first few approaches and left the more advanced techniques to others. The basket weave is my jam: an orderly, square grid of warp and weft, under and over. It sturdily bridges a hole, buying purchase in undamaged fabric and sealing off loose ends. The fun comes from combinations of colored thread, patches that contrast against the surrounding material, or else the challenge of making a mend as invisible as possible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eventually, I worked my way up to shirts and sweaters. (I’m still building the confidence to mend jeans.) But socks, the original low-stakes testing ground, remain my favorite thing to darn. Thankfully, holey socks are an endlessly renewable resource. As soon as one hole is covered, or a thin zone reinforced, a toe will poke through elsewhere. So long as we wear socks and walk around this hard-crusted city, we will rub away the material that provides comfort and protection, step after step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984769\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000.jpg\" alt=\"objects on green desktop\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984769\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Darning-tools-2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tools of the trade, clockwise from top left: a ‘Speedweve’-like hand loom, a wooden darning egg, a tin of needles and thread, and a trusty soup ladle. \u003ccite>(Sarah Hotchkiss/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This is a hobby that requires very little in the way of equipment. In the early days, I used a soup ladle, stretching socks over the rounded scoop to create a stable surface to stitch against. (While I have been cooking more elaborate dishes, there hasn’t been much soup on the menu.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Material experimentation is inexpensive. I tried out embroidery floss (too thick and brittle), sewing thread (too thin, had to double it up) and eventually landed on bobbins of wool reinforcement thread. Also a favorite: cotton sashiko thread, which comes in variegated strands that add an element of chance to the whole endeavor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As my obsession progressed, I found myself shopping at San Francisco’s \u003ca href=\"https://imagiknit.com/\">ImagiKnit\u003c/a>. A punny business name tells you you’re on the right track: peak enjoyment, zero striving, comfort with the built-in cringe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whenever I finished a darn, I would send close friends pictures of myself grinning maniacally, holding up a socked foot to show off a freshly mended heel. Soon, their accolades via chat weren’t enough. I began talking about my newfound love in public. After I mentioned it in an artist talk, a kind person even gifted me a wooden darning egg, passed down through their family. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The hobby really kicked into high gear with a small, handheld loom, a birthday present from a dear friend. This thing is next level. A darn that might have taken me over an hour is now done in 30 minutes. My mends have gotten tighter, even more uniform. The pile of holey socks dwindles with astonishing rapidity. I find myself inspecting clothes more closely while folding laundry. Is this pocket coming unstitched? Is this heel getting thin? It couldn’t hurt to preemptively reinforce it …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have become, I fear, a bit insufferable. “Look what I did!” I say to my boyfriend, thrusting a sock in his face. “I know. I watched you do it,” he replies. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I desperately want to share with others the personal thrill that comes from completing a mend — of making an unusable thing useful once again. Yet only I am doing that work; the thrill is decidedly nontransferable. What is this impulse, then?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We worry about our screen time, we install app limits and buy Bricks and sign up for \u003ca href=\"https://phonefreefebruary.com/\">Phone-Free February\u003c/a>. We try to distract ourselves from time-sucking, glowing devices by doing things with our hands. In-person experiences are up, workshops are full, people want tangible skills in an intangible world. And darning can absolutely be one of those skills, with the added benefit of keeping clothes in circulation and out of the waste stream. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Darning is also teaching me to enjoy a private, personal satisfaction. Concealed within shoes, undetectable (I hope) to feet, these are functional fixes. Each mend contains its own small beauty, but it’s a beauty glimpsed only by those wearing the socks. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Slowly, I’m getting rid of this impulse to \u003ci>share\u003c/i> it all — she writes, doing just that. Well, two steps forward, one step back. It’s a good thing more friction means more mending.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In college, no one warns you how difficult it will be to maintain friendships in adulthood. The campus provides endless opportunities to run into friends, grab a bite together in the dining halls and dance at the same parties. “Long distance” usually means your friend lives on the opposite corner of the walkable and bikeable environment you call home. There’s even the “\u003ca href=\"https://x.com/deliclit/status/1992280812432080946?s=20\">freshman year friend group\u003c/a>” effect — the people you mostly befriend out of convenience, because you live on the same floor of the same building.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984741\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 400px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\" wp-image-13984741\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-2000x1500.jpg\" alt=\"two people pose for a photo in a dimly-lit bar.\" width=\"400\" height=\"300\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-2000x1500.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-2048x1536.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two people sitting across from Dea and I at Mission District wine bar Horsies asked if we could take a photo of them, and captured this image of us in return.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Francisco is, geographically speaking, relatively small. Not campus small, but the space is tight enough that running into people you know is inevitable. In theory, that should make seeing friends easier — everyone is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/muni\">MUNI\u003c/a> ride away, right? Unfortunately, for quite some time, this had the opposite effect for me, as if knowing I could hypothetically meet up for coffee anytime was enough to keep connections alive. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This year, my college friends and I came up with a new approach — a standing Tuesday rendezvous that we plan in the group chat, as long as two or more of us are available and willing to hang out. It was not a groundbreaking, never-before-seen concept, but my friend Dea made sure we followed through.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s how the two of us ended up at a wine bar in the Mission one rainy evening. Over some tasty syrah, I asked her about how her new job was going and what travel plans she has coming up. She asked me about my dating life. We discussed the interior design of the bar, which reminded us of some of the bars we’d go to in Berlin, when we studied abroad there together. By the time we left, we’d successfully caught up, and already planted the seeds for our next hang. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Over the course of the next few weeks, we continued to see each other more consistently, skipping some weeks but sticking with our Tuesday gatherings. I would consider these “low-effort” hangs, the kind where it doesn’t matter what you wear or how you look. We might sip on some hot tea (literally and figuratively) at one of our apartments or go to the theater to see a foreign film. The point was always to make room in our social calendars and build community as adults. [aside postid='arts_13984726']\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Last night, after everyone returned from their Thanksgiving travels, we got together at my apartment. There was wine, there were snacks and most importantly, we had two dogs in attendance, keeping us entertained at all times. We were at least an hour deep into conversation when I noticed I completely forgot to put on any background music. Five humans and two dogs, it turns out, are enough to fill in every gap where a chill R&B playlist would typically shine.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At the end of the night, we had to acknowledge that this might very well have been the last time we’d all see each other before the new year, and that we’d need to consciously revive our casual hangouts when everyone’s back in the city. Maybe tending to our adult friendships doesn’t have to be so complicated. I went to bed with my heart full, comforted by the idea that we’d probably be together again on another Tuesday night very soon.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">In college, no one warns you how difficult it will be to maintain friendships in adulthood. The campus provides endless opportunities to run into friends, grab a bite together in the dining halls and dance at the same parties. “Long distance” usually means your friend lives on the opposite corner of the walkable and bikeable environment you call home. There’s even the “\u003ca href=\"https://x.com/deliclit/status/1992280812432080946?s=20\">freshman year friend group\u003c/a>” effect — the people you mostly befriend out of convenience, because you live on the same floor of the same building.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984741\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 400px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\" wp-image-13984741\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-2000x1500.jpg\" alt=\"two people pose for a photo in a dimly-lit bar.\" width=\"400\" height=\"300\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-2000x1500.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_6384-2048x1536.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two people sitting across from Dea and I at Mission District wine bar Horsies asked if we could take a photo of them, and captured this image of us in return.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Francisco is, geographically speaking, relatively small. Not campus small, but the space is tight enough that running into people you know is inevitable. In theory, that should make seeing friends easier — everyone is a \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/muni\">MUNI\u003c/a> ride away, right? Unfortunately, for quite some time, this had the opposite effect for me, as if knowing I could hypothetically meet up for coffee anytime was enough to keep connections alive. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This year, my college friends and I came up with a new approach — a standing Tuesday rendezvous that we plan in the group chat, as long as two or more of us are available and willing to hang out. It was not a groundbreaking, never-before-seen concept, but my friend Dea made sure we followed through.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">That’s how the two of us ended up at a wine bar in the Mission one rainy evening. Over some tasty syrah, I asked her about how her new job was going and what travel plans she has coming up. She asked me about my dating life. We discussed the interior design of the bar, which reminded us of some of the bars we’d go to in Berlin, when we studied abroad there together. By the time we left, we’d successfully caught up, and already planted the seeds for our next hang. \u003c/span>\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-weight: 400\">Over the course of the next few weeks, we continued to see each other more consistently, skipping some weeks but sticking with our Tuesday gatherings. I would consider these “low-effort” hangs, the kind where it doesn’t matter what you wear or how you look. We might sip on some hot tea (literally and figuratively) at one of our apartments or go to the theater to see a foreign film. The point was always to make room in our social calendars and build community as adults. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Last night, after everyone returned from their Thanksgiving travels, we got together at my apartment. There was wine, there were snacks and most importantly, we had two dogs in attendance, keeping us entertained at all times. We were at least an hour deep into conversation when I noticed I completely forgot to put on any background music. Five humans and two dogs, it turns out, are enough to fill in every gap where a chill R&B playlist would typically shine.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At the end of the night, we had to acknowledge that this might very well have been the last time we’d all see each other before the new year, and that we’d need to consciously revive our casual hangouts when everyone’s back in the city. Maybe tending to our adult friendships doesn’t have to be so complicated. I went to bed with my heart full, comforted by the idea that we’d probably be together again on another Tuesday night very soon.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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]O[/dropcap]n a bright Sunday morning in June, I sat down in a crowded synagogue library in West Berkeley for my first ever \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/crossword\">crossword puzzle\u003c/a> competition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d signed up on a lark, in the interest of trying something new. Berkeley’s second annual \u003ca href=\"https://www.westwordsbestwords.com/\">Westwords\u003c/a> crossword tournament — a grueling, six-hour puzzle-solving extravaganza — certainly fit the bill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m gonna get smoked!” I told my wife and kids, who’d decamped to New Jersey for the summer a few days earlier, leaving me with a precious free weekend to pursue my nerdy hobbies. “I just don’t want to finish last.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Look, I’d done enough research ahead of time to know I didn’t have a prayer of winning, or even placing remotely close to the top of the leaderboard. Not when the \u003ca href=\"https://fivethirtyeight.com/features/dan-feyer-american-crossword-puzzle-tournament/\">world’s top puzzlers\u003c/a> routinely solve the \u003ci>New York Times \u003c/i>Saturday crossword in 3 or 4 minutes — nearly 10 times faster than my best efforts. Still, I didn’t \u003ci>really \u003c/i>think I was in any danger of coming in dead last. I’d completed the \u003ci>NYT \u003c/i>puzzle for more than 500 days in a row! I didn’t know anyone, personally, who was a more devoted crossword puzzle solver than me!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If glory was out of reach, I figured I could at least achieve respectability.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So how did it come to be that about 15 minutes into the first puzzle of the tournament, I was one of just five or six people in the room who still hadn’t finished my grid? Looking at the friendly mix of mild-mannered software engineer types, dudes rocking ponytails and goth girls in crossword-themed dresses who’d gathered in Berkeley that day, how did I not realize that more than half of them were outright\u003ci> monsters\u003c/i>?\u003ci> \u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last place started to seem like a real possibility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984722\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984722\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672.jpg\" alt=\"Vintage black and white photo of crossword solvers sitting at individual desks during a competition.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1470\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672-160x118.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672-768x564.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672-1536x1129.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ahh, crossword squares and Scotch: In 1971, competitors take part in the Cutty Sark/Times National Crossword Championships in the London. \u003ccite>(Central Press/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n one sense, you could say I’d been training for crossword glory for my entire life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d always been the Word Person in my science-oriented friend group — the OED brandisher, the unrepentant menace in games of Boggle and \u003ca href=\"https://www.mrkland.com/mrkland.com/sport/spscrab.htm\">Speed Scrabble\u003c/a>. But I came to crossword puzzles, specifically, relatively late in life. In the early pandemic years, I started taking long hot baths every night as a way to self-soothe. Instead of doomscrolling during those hours-long soaks, I got in the habit of doing the \u003ci>New York Times \u003c/i>crossword on my phone. I was surprised to be able to complete them, mostly — the breezy Monday puzzles and, with enough time and effort, the gnarly, knotty Saturdays (which I learned were much harder than their more famous Sunday counterparts). Week by week, I got faster and more confident, and my mental health started to improve, too: As it turns out, racking your brain to think of a five-letter word for “performed reasonably well”\u003csup>1\u003c/sup> was a decent way to distract yourself from all that existential dread.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, none of this prepared me for the balls-to-the-wall world of competitive crossword tournaments, where puzzles are scored on both speed and accuracy. The largest, most prestigious in-person crossword competitions, like the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/people/2101852/will-shortz\">Will Shortz\u003c/a>–hosted American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, can draw more than 1,000 participants. The most expert among them have been known to fill out a grid, error-free, even faster than the puzzle’s \u003ci>constructor \u003c/i>(who, presumably, knew all the answers ahead of time).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Among the 150 or so who’d crammed into the synagogue library for Westwords, I learned that most of my tablemates were also first-timers — a lawyer, a video game designer, a couple of sleepy-looking college kids. We sat with our papers turned upside down until the proctors started the timer, like we’d all gone back to high school to take the SATs. Wielding the mechanical pencil and fancy Japanese eraser I’d purchased for the occasion, I started working my way through the first puzzle — an easy warmup, we were told. A three-letter word for “hullabaloo.”\u003csup>2\u003c/sup> Six-letter word for “pandemonium” starting with “B.”\u003csup>3\u003c/sup>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Everything was going swimmingly until about two minutes in, when people started raising their hands to indicate that they’d \u003ci>finished\u003c/i>. (I’d filled in maybe a dozen answers at that point.) Nothing can prepare you for that very specific form of stress — the way my hands were sweaty and my pencil started to shake — when 5 contestants, then very quickly 10 and then 50, turned in their puzzles and trickled out of the room. Soon enough, there were only a dozen of us left. Meanwhile, the clock continued to tick down, and half of my puzzle was still blank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time the clock ran out on the second puzzle, which I didn’t come particularly close to finishing, I was thoroughly demoralized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cspan style=\"color: #2b2b2b;font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13969423,arts_13983150']\u003c/span>\u003c/span>I’m the sort of person who’s spent most of my life focusing on things I knew I excelled at: getting good grades, being cutthroat at board games and \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_two\">Big Two\u003c/a>, eating large quantities of noodles \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/the-midnight-diners\">late at night\u003c/a>. I quit organized sports and the jazz band before I started high school because I didn’t think I was any good. I never really gave writing that novel a serious shot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet I tell my kids all the time how they shouldn’t be afraid to try new and difficult things — how they should challenge themselves and enjoy learning for learning’s sake. That they shouldn’t worry about failing or looking foolish. Sitting in a soondubu shop across the street from the crossword competition during our lunch break, I thought about how so many of my favorite memories were from letting loose at things I’m genuinely \u003ci>bad \u003c/i>at — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13969423/sports-dad-rock-climbing-bouldering-parenting\">rock climbing\u003c/a>, or \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13968142/karaoke-south-san-francisco-hong-kong-late-night-restaurant-noodles-e-plus\">karaoke\u003c/a>, or those six months in college when I tried to become a breakdancer [screaming face emoji].\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is a kind of freedom that comes with embracing your own mediocrity — or at least in not worrying how well you’re going to do compared to anyone else. I wish I could say that I came back from lunch and aced the last three puzzles of the tournament, but the truth is, I only finished one of them, and even that one was riddled with mistakes. But I did finally manage to relax a little. To just fill in one square at a time and enjoy the thrill of solving for solving’s sake. To have \u003ci>fun\u003c/i> with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984723\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1598px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984723\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm.png\" alt=\"The leaderboard of a crossword competition. Luke Tsai is in 134th place.\" width=\"1598\" height=\"446\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm.png 1598w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm-160x45.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm-768x214.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm-1536x429.png 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1598px) 100vw, 1598px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Luke Tsai’s final ranking and score in the crossword competition.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the end, I didn’t wind up finishing in last place after all — though my 134th place ranking (out of 144 competitors) was almost low enough to be a punchline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course I decided immediately that I’d be back to try again next year.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003csup>1\u003c/sup>\u003c/i>\u003ci>DID OK\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003csup>2\u003c/sup>\u003c/i>\u003ci>ADO\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003csup>3\u003c/sup>\u003c/i>\u003ci>BEDLAM\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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\">O\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n a bright Sunday morning in June, I sat down in a crowded synagogue library in West Berkeley for my first ever \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/crossword\">crossword puzzle\u003c/a> competition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d signed up on a lark, in the interest of trying something new. Berkeley’s second annual \u003ca href=\"https://www.westwordsbestwords.com/\">Westwords\u003c/a> crossword tournament — a grueling, six-hour puzzle-solving extravaganza — certainly fit the bill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m gonna get smoked!” I told my wife and kids, who’d decamped to New Jersey for the summer a few days earlier, leaving me with a precious free weekend to pursue my nerdy hobbies. “I just don’t want to finish last.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Look, I’d done enough research ahead of time to know I didn’t have a prayer of winning, or even placing remotely close to the top of the leaderboard. Not when the \u003ca href=\"https://fivethirtyeight.com/features/dan-feyer-american-crossword-puzzle-tournament/\">world’s top puzzlers\u003c/a> routinely solve the \u003ci>New York Times \u003c/i>Saturday crossword in 3 or 4 minutes — nearly 10 times faster than my best efforts. Still, I didn’t \u003ci>really \u003c/i>think I was in any danger of coming in dead last. I’d completed the \u003ci>NYT \u003c/i>puzzle for more than 500 days in a row! I didn’t know anyone, personally, who was a more devoted crossword puzzle solver than me!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If glory was out of reach, I figured I could at least achieve respectability.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So how did it come to be that about 15 minutes into the first puzzle of the tournament, I was one of just five or six people in the room who still hadn’t finished my grid? Looking at the friendly mix of mild-mannered software engineer types, dudes rocking ponytails and goth girls in crossword-themed dresses who’d gathered in Berkeley that day, how did I not realize that more than half of them were outright\u003ci> monsters\u003c/i>?\u003ci> \u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last place started to seem like a real possibility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984722\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984722\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672.jpg\" alt=\"Vintage black and white photo of crossword solvers sitting at individual desks during a competition.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1470\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672-160x118.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672-768x564.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-3319672-1536x1129.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ahh, crossword squares and Scotch: In 1971, competitors take part in the Cutty Sark/Times National Crossword Championships in the London. \u003ccite>(Central Press/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n one sense, you could say I’d been training for crossword glory for my entire life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d always been the Word Person in my science-oriented friend group — the OED brandisher, the unrepentant menace in games of Boggle and \u003ca href=\"https://www.mrkland.com/mrkland.com/sport/spscrab.htm\">Speed Scrabble\u003c/a>. But I came to crossword puzzles, specifically, relatively late in life. In the early pandemic years, I started taking long hot baths every night as a way to self-soothe. Instead of doomscrolling during those hours-long soaks, I got in the habit of doing the \u003ci>New York Times \u003c/i>crossword on my phone. I was surprised to be able to complete them, mostly — the breezy Monday puzzles and, with enough time and effort, the gnarly, knotty Saturdays (which I learned were much harder than their more famous Sunday counterparts). Week by week, I got faster and more confident, and my mental health started to improve, too: As it turns out, racking your brain to think of a five-letter word for “performed reasonably well”\u003csup>1\u003c/sup> was a decent way to distract yourself from all that existential dread.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, none of this prepared me for the balls-to-the-wall world of competitive crossword tournaments, where puzzles are scored on both speed and accuracy. The largest, most prestigious in-person crossword competitions, like the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/people/2101852/will-shortz\">Will Shortz\u003c/a>–hosted American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, can draw more than 1,000 participants. The most expert among them have been known to fill out a grid, error-free, even faster than the puzzle’s \u003ci>constructor \u003c/i>(who, presumably, knew all the answers ahead of time).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Among the 150 or so who’d crammed into the synagogue library for Westwords, I learned that most of my tablemates were also first-timers — a lawyer, a video game designer, a couple of sleepy-looking college kids. We sat with our papers turned upside down until the proctors started the timer, like we’d all gone back to high school to take the SATs. Wielding the mechanical pencil and fancy Japanese eraser I’d purchased for the occasion, I started working my way through the first puzzle — an easy warmup, we were told. A three-letter word for “hullabaloo.”\u003csup>2\u003c/sup> Six-letter word for “pandemonium” starting with “B.”\u003csup>3\u003c/sup>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Everything was going swimmingly until about two minutes in, when people started raising their hands to indicate that they’d \u003ci>finished\u003c/i>. (I’d filled in maybe a dozen answers at that point.) Nothing can prepare you for that very specific form of stress — the way my hands were sweaty and my pencil started to shake — when 5 contestants, then very quickly 10 and then 50, turned in their puzzles and trickled out of the room. Soon enough, there were only a dozen of us left. Meanwhile, the clock continued to tick down, and half of my puzzle was still blank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the time the clock ran out on the second puzzle, which I didn’t come particularly close to finishing, I was thoroughly demoralized.\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’m the sort of person who’s spent most of my life focusing on things I knew I excelled at: getting good grades, being cutthroat at board games and \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_two\">Big Two\u003c/a>, eating large quantities of noodles \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/the-midnight-diners\">late at night\u003c/a>. I quit organized sports and the jazz band before I started high school because I didn’t think I was any good. I never really gave writing that novel a serious shot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet I tell my kids all the time how they shouldn’t be afraid to try new and difficult things — how they should challenge themselves and enjoy learning for learning’s sake. That they shouldn’t worry about failing or looking foolish. Sitting in a soondubu shop across the street from the crossword competition during our lunch break, I thought about how so many of my favorite memories were from letting loose at things I’m genuinely \u003ci>bad \u003c/i>at — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13969423/sports-dad-rock-climbing-bouldering-parenting\">rock climbing\u003c/a>, or \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13968142/karaoke-south-san-francisco-hong-kong-late-night-restaurant-noodles-e-plus\">karaoke\u003c/a>, or those six months in college when I tried to become a breakdancer [screaming face emoji].\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is a kind of freedom that comes with embracing your own mediocrity — or at least in not worrying how well you’re going to do compared to anyone else. I wish I could say that I came back from lunch and aced the last three puzzles of the tournament, but the truth is, I only finished one of them, and even that one was riddled with mistakes. But I did finally manage to relax a little. To just fill in one square at a time and enjoy the thrill of solving for solving’s sake. To have \u003ci>fun\u003c/i> with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984723\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1598px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984723\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm.png\" alt=\"The leaderboard of a crossword competition. Luke Tsai is in 134th place.\" width=\"1598\" height=\"446\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm.png 1598w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm-160x45.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm-768x214.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/screenshot_2025-12-09_at_6.50.50___pm-1536x429.png 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1598px) 100vw, 1598px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Luke Tsai’s final ranking and score in the crossword competition.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the end, I didn’t wind up finishing in last place after all — though my 134th place ranking (out of 144 competitors) was almost low enough to be a punchline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course I decided immediately that I’d be back to try again next year.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003csup>1\u003c/sup>\u003c/i>\u003ci>DID OK\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003csup>2\u003c/sup>\u003c/i>\u003ci>ADO\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "messy-marv-san-francisco-rap-community-support",
"title": "The Bay Showed Love to Messy Marv in 2025",
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"headTitle": "The Bay Showed Love to Messy Marv in 2025 | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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]T[/dropcap]his year, nothing has been more beautiful than the outpouring of support for famed San Francisco rapper Messy Marv.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After being released last year from a stint behind bars, the lyrical game spitter has been spotted struggling on the streets of the Bay. People have pulled up and given him \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/shorts/mXuWiOev5ow\">money\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/shorts/29nYDBERpBQ\">food\u003c/a>, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/shorts/a5WY-nRTLYg\">haircut\u003c/a>, as well as love and support; that affection has only been \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DRTEsgIEiCz/\">amplified online\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-13833985\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"180\" height=\"207\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_.jpg 180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_-160x184.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 180px) 100vw, 180px\">Marv’s return was highlighted by an emotional reunion with \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DPM4vs5keOY/\">Mistah F.A.B.\u003c/a> in September, which inspired another resounding wave of props to remind people of his rightful spot in the Bay Area’s hip-hop pantheon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The question of who goes on the Mt. Rushmore of Bay Area rap has always bothered me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Set aside that it’s referencing images of colonists carved into sacred stones of the Lakota Sioux, who called the land formation Tȟuŋkášila Šákpe, or Six Grandfathers. My main problem is with people believing that four individuals can truly represent the entirety of this unique, obscure, vast flavor of hip-hop we know and love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Do you know the depth of Bay Area hip-hop? \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951128\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951128\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-800x1064.png\" alt=\"Fillmore raised MC, San Francisco rap star Messy Marv poses for a photo.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1064\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-800x1064.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-1020x1357.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-160x213.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-768x1022.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3.png 1108w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fillmore-raised MC and San Francisco rap star Messy Marv in the 2000s. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The list of figureheads for Northern California’s rap scene usually starts with Too Short, the Godfather, and E-40, the king of slang. The Furly Ghost himself, Mac Dre, is often a shoo-in. And then the discussion gets interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>MC Hammer broke pop barriers and went diamond. The Jacka’s music reached folks on prison yards and those praying in Mecca. And HBK held it down when the Bay wasn’t really making a sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hieroglyphics created a brand known around the world, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.xxlmag.com/california-love/\">San Quinn is in the Guinness Book of World Records\u003c/a> for recording the most features before the age of 21. Kamaiyah is a party music machine, Traxamillion gave us anthems for virtually every Bay Area city and Rick Rock embodies the term “slap.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters gave us “Somethin’ to Ride To,” Larry June is showing us there’s a healthy way to be a player and Keak Da Sneak is still the people’s champ. There’s Digital Underground, Luniz, Rappin’ 4-Tay, Richie Rich, Mistah F.A.B. and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then there’s Messy Marv.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924090\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924090\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-800x756.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"756\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-800x756.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-1020x964.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-160x151.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-768x726.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871.jpg 1125w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nump (at right) with Messy Marv, who gave Nump his name during studio sessions in the early 2000s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Nump)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>He’s a rapper that’s seen some of the highest highs and the lowest lows. And his story shows why the Mt. Rushmore question is asinine, and leaves no room for the nuances of an artist’s career, or the person’s lived experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For some rappers, “making it” isn’t about talent and hit tracks, radio spins, plaques on the wall or songs reaching the charts. It’s about surviving.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Messy Marv has done all of the above.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s rocked shows all across the country, dropped multiple tracks that’ve reached the Billboard charts and collaborated with the likes of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNGSCgs8moM&t=43s\">Keyshia Cole\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHZphkKEt2Q\">Dead Prez\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Izr9s1ozOss\">George Clinton\u003c/a>. He’s navigated true poverty, dealt with addiction and been in and out of one system or another since he was a kid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13983670']“I’m a foster care baby,” \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPhMR8X5NHk\">Messy Marv told Dregs One\u003c/a>, host of the \u003cem>History of The Bay\u003c/em> podcast during a revealing interview last year. Discussing his parents, whom he’s never met, he said, “They left me on the porch when I was two years old, and sold me for $70.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He slept in trap houses with dogs, and was exposed to the fast life at a young age. “I was tooting powder at 9,” Marv told Dregs One in the same interview. “This is a Fillmore tradition,” he added. “Smoke a lil’ coke and toot a lil’ powder cocaine. This is history.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marv found family through \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/richrocka/?hl=en\">Rich Rocka\u003c/a> (formerly known as Ya Boy) and the neighboring Fillmore community; serenity came later in the form of hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inspired by the music of pioneering San Francisco rappers \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/hughemc/\">Hugh EMC\u003c/a> and the late \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13928057/alien-mac-kitty-cougnut-daughter-san-francisco-frisco-rap-legacy\">Cougnut\u003c/a>, and coupled with a push to perform during a middle school talent show, Messy Marv found his lane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He dropped his first full album \u003cem>Messy Situationz\u003c/em> in 1996. Two years later he partnered with fellow Fillmore rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/sanquinn415/\">San Quinn\u003c/a> for \u003cem>Explosive Mode\u003c/em>, a project that still stands as a certified hood classic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984674\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984674\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Explosive Mode,’ Messy Marv’s 1998 album with San Quinn. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Marv then went on a run from the late ’90s through the early 2000s, dropping dozens of albums, recording hundreds of features and founding his own label, Scalen Entertainment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His music reflected his real-life involvement with the streets, fast cars, women and drug use. With a certain ease, he used his guttural voice and punchy wordplay to paint vivid images of “the other side” of the most picturesque city in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marv’s career is full of erroneous decisions and unfortunate mishaps. In 2001 he was confined to a wheelchair for six months after \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPhMR8X5NHk&t=2413s\">surviving a leap from a four-story window\u003c/a> that left his legs shattered. In 2005 he was \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/crime/article/for-s-f-rappers-another-dream-deferred-2560404.php\">arrested on weapons possession charges\u003c/a> while en route to a photoshoot for the magazine \u003cem>XXL\u003c/em>. In 2018 he was seen \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73KjowD6TLg\">brandishing a firearm\u003c/a> while searching for rapper J-Diggs in Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And still, Marv holds a special place in Bay Area hip-hop lore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years ago, as O.J. Simpson discussed his love of hip-hop during an appearance on Cam’ron and Ma$e’s popular podcast \u003cem>It Is What It Is\u003c/em>, he surprised nearly everyone by \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=311185161773531\">mentioning Messy Marv first\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13895586']I’ve talked to so many people about Marv’s influence. That includes renowned hip-hop \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13951122/d-ray-bay-area-hip-hop-photographer\">photographer D-Ray\u003c/a>, who made some of the earliest images of Marv as a rapper, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13956701/therapy-in-the-ghetto-reimagined-to-raise-mental-health-awareness-in-sfs-bayview\">Gunna Goes Global\u003c/a>, an MC raised in the shadows of Marv’s ascension in the Fillmore. They all say the same thing: Messy Marv is tragically underrated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A recent call to one of Marv’s close family members revealed to me that the famed rapper is still in need of help. And a text from Mistah F.A.B., who also runs the “\u003ca href=\"https://thethugstherapy.com/\">T.H.U.G. Therapy\u003c/a>” men’s support group, reminded me that “mental health is important.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like many all across the Bay, I’m hoping for the best for Marv. I’ll also echo something \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mC6momU_K50\">Mistah F.A.B. told Dregs One\u003c/a> earlier this year, while discussing Messy Marv: “They can’t take who we was,” he said, paraphrasing a line from the film \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8NeB6-JQqI\">\u003cem>Above The Rim\u003c/em>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A gold medal in 2002 is still a gold medal in 2025,” added F.A.B. “And Mess will always be a gold medalist in my eyes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I don’t believe we should have a Mt. Rushmore of Bay Area hip-hop. But if we were to hoist the names of the greatest locally raised hip-hop artists to the top of, say, Twin Peaks? Then there’d better be a spot reserved for Messy Marv.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "This year, the outpouring of love for the San Francisco rapper was a beautiful thing, writes Pendarvis Harshaw.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>his year, nothing has been more beautiful than the outpouring of support for famed San Francisco rapper Messy Marv.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After being released last year from a stint behind bars, the lyrical game spitter has been spotted struggling on the streets of the Bay. People have pulled up and given him \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/shorts/mXuWiOev5ow\">money\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/shorts/29nYDBERpBQ\">food\u003c/a>, a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/shorts/a5WY-nRTLYg\">haircut\u003c/a>, as well as love and support; that affection has only been \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DRTEsgIEiCz/\">amplified online\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-13833985\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"180\" height=\"207\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_.jpg 180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/05/OGPenn.Cap_-160x184.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 180px) 100vw, 180px\">Marv’s return was highlighted by an emotional reunion with \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/DPM4vs5keOY/\">Mistah F.A.B.\u003c/a> in September, which inspired another resounding wave of props to remind people of his rightful spot in the Bay Area’s hip-hop pantheon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The question of who goes on the Mt. Rushmore of Bay Area rap has always bothered me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Set aside that it’s referencing images of colonists carved into sacred stones of the Lakota Sioux, who called the land formation Tȟuŋkášila Šákpe, or Six Grandfathers. My main problem is with people believing that four individuals can truly represent the entirety of this unique, obscure, vast flavor of hip-hop we know and love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Do you know the depth of Bay Area hip-hop? \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13951128\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13951128\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-800x1064.png\" alt=\"Fillmore raised MC, San Francisco rap star Messy Marv poses for a photo.\" width=\"800\" height=\"1064\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-800x1064.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-1020x1357.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-160x213.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3-768x1022.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/01/3.png 1108w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fillmore-raised MC and San Francisco rap star Messy Marv in the 2000s. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The list of figureheads for Northern California’s rap scene usually starts with Too Short, the Godfather, and E-40, the king of slang. The Furly Ghost himself, Mac Dre, is often a shoo-in. And then the discussion gets interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>MC Hammer broke pop barriers and went diamond. The Jacka’s music reached folks on prison yards and those praying in Mecca. And HBK held it down when the Bay wasn’t really making a sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hieroglyphics created a brand known around the world, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.xxlmag.com/california-love/\">San Quinn is in the Guinness Book of World Records\u003c/a> for recording the most features before the age of 21. Kamaiyah is a party music machine, Traxamillion gave us anthems for virtually every Bay Area city and Rick Rock embodies the term “slap.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Conscious Daughters gave us “Somethin’ to Ride To,” Larry June is showing us there’s a healthy way to be a player and Keak Da Sneak is still the people’s champ. There’s Digital Underground, Luniz, Rappin’ 4-Tay, Richie Rich, Mistah F.A.B. and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then there’s Messy Marv.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13924090\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13924090\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-800x756.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"756\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-800x756.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-1020x964.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-160x151.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871-768x726.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/01/1b391526-3797-4371-acff-a39092a7d871.jpg 1125w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nump (at right) with Messy Marv, who gave Nump his name during studio sessions in the early 2000s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Nump)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>He’s a rapper that’s seen some of the highest highs and the lowest lows. And his story shows why the Mt. Rushmore question is asinine, and leaves no room for the nuances of an artist’s career, or the person’s lived experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For some rappers, “making it” isn’t about talent and hit tracks, radio spins, plaques on the wall or songs reaching the charts. It’s about surviving.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Messy Marv has done all of the above.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s rocked shows all across the country, dropped multiple tracks that’ve reached the Billboard charts and collaborated with the likes of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNGSCgs8moM&t=43s\">Keyshia Cole\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHZphkKEt2Q\">Dead Prez\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Izr9s1ozOss\">George Clinton\u003c/a>. He’s navigated true poverty, dealt with addiction and been in and out of one system or another since he was a kid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“I’m a foster care baby,” \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPhMR8X5NHk\">Messy Marv told Dregs One\u003c/a>, host of the \u003cem>History of The Bay\u003c/em> podcast during a revealing interview last year. Discussing his parents, whom he’s never met, he said, “They left me on the porch when I was two years old, and sold me for $70.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He slept in trap houses with dogs, and was exposed to the fast life at a young age. “I was tooting powder at 9,” Marv told Dregs One in the same interview. “This is a Fillmore tradition,” he added. “Smoke a lil’ coke and toot a lil’ powder cocaine. This is history.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marv found family through \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/richrocka/?hl=en\">Rich Rocka\u003c/a> (formerly known as Ya Boy) and the neighboring Fillmore community; serenity came later in the form of hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inspired by the music of pioneering San Francisco rappers \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/hughemc/\">Hugh EMC\u003c/a> and the late \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13928057/alien-mac-kitty-cougnut-daughter-san-francisco-frisco-rap-legacy\">Cougnut\u003c/a>, and coupled with a push to perform during a middle school talent show, Messy Marv found his lane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He dropped his first full album \u003cem>Messy Situationz\u003c/em> in 1996. Two years later he partnered with fellow Fillmore rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/sanquinn415/\">San Quinn\u003c/a> for \u003cem>Explosive Mode\u003c/em>, a project that still stands as a certified hood classic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984674\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984674\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9880-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Explosive Mode,’ Messy Marv’s 1998 album with San Quinn. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Marv then went on a run from the late ’90s through the early 2000s, dropping dozens of albums, recording hundreds of features and founding his own label, Scalen Entertainment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His music reflected his real-life involvement with the streets, fast cars, women and drug use. With a certain ease, he used his guttural voice and punchy wordplay to paint vivid images of “the other side” of the most picturesque city in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marv’s career is full of erroneous decisions and unfortunate mishaps. In 2001 he was confined to a wheelchair for six months after \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPhMR8X5NHk&t=2413s\">surviving a leap from a four-story window\u003c/a> that left his legs shattered. In 2005 he was \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/crime/article/for-s-f-rappers-another-dream-deferred-2560404.php\">arrested on weapons possession charges\u003c/a> while en route to a photoshoot for the magazine \u003cem>XXL\u003c/em>. In 2018 he was seen \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73KjowD6TLg\">brandishing a firearm\u003c/a> while searching for rapper J-Diggs in Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And still, Marv holds a special place in Bay Area hip-hop lore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years ago, as O.J. Simpson discussed his love of hip-hop during an appearance on Cam’ron and Ma$e’s popular podcast \u003cem>It Is What It Is\u003c/em>, he surprised nearly everyone by \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=311185161773531\">mentioning Messy Marv first\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>I’ve talked to so many people about Marv’s influence. That includes renowned hip-hop \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13951122/d-ray-bay-area-hip-hop-photographer\">photographer D-Ray\u003c/a>, who made some of the earliest images of Marv as a rapper, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13956701/therapy-in-the-ghetto-reimagined-to-raise-mental-health-awareness-in-sfs-bayview\">Gunna Goes Global\u003c/a>, an MC raised in the shadows of Marv’s ascension in the Fillmore. They all say the same thing: Messy Marv is tragically underrated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A recent call to one of Marv’s close family members revealed to me that the famed rapper is still in need of help. And a text from Mistah F.A.B., who also runs the “\u003ca href=\"https://thethugstherapy.com/\">T.H.U.G. Therapy\u003c/a>” men’s support group, reminded me that “mental health is important.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like many all across the Bay, I’m hoping for the best for Marv. I’ll also echo something \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mC6momU_K50\">Mistah F.A.B. told Dregs One\u003c/a> earlier this year, while discussing Messy Marv: “They can’t take who we was,” he said, paraphrasing a line from the film \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8NeB6-JQqI\">\u003cem>Above The Rim\u003c/em>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A gold medal in 2002 is still a gold medal in 2025,” added F.A.B. “And Mess will always be a gold medalist in my eyes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I don’t believe we should have a Mt. Rushmore of Bay Area hip-hop. But if we were to hoist the names of the greatest locally raised hip-hop artists to the top of, say, Twin Peaks? Then there’d better be a spot reserved for Messy Marv.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "In 2025, the Valkyries’ Inaugural Season Reminded Me of Women’s Raw Power",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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 was a particularly glorious \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/sf-pride\">San Francisco Pride\u003c/a> weekend. My jeans had grass stains from a sunny afternoon at Dolores Park, and my heart was on fire from the passion and solidarity I witnessed at the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13858877/how-the-trans-community-reclaimed-its-rightful-place-at-pride\">Trans March\u003c/a>. After we joined a pink, white and blue procession of gender-nonconforming people demanding dignity down Market Street, one of my best friends and I took Muni to the Chase Center and stepped into a sea of violet, lavender and lilac. I had been to professional basketball games before, but there was another level of excitement vibrating through the stadium during the first-ever Pride game of the Bay Area WNBA team’s inaugural season.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984641\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984641\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-scaled.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">KQED Arts & Culture’s Nastia Voynovskaya courtside at Chase Center during the Valkyries’ warm-up on Aug. 19, 2025. \u003ccite>(Tâm Vũ/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Valkyries won against the Chicago Sky, yes, but what stood out the most to me were the moments of connection and community, large and small. Throughout the Valkyries’ inaugural season, Ballhalla — as their home court is known — became a super queer, massive celebration of women’s raw power and strength. In a year when conservative ideas about gender made a major comeback, this was the antidote I didn’t know I needed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]F[/dropcap]rom the players, to the creative luminaries on the jumbotron, to the fans in the stands, my first Valkyries game felt completely different from any other professional sports experience. Seated next to me was a friend of a friend, and we hit it off in a conversation that began with basketball and ended with spirituality and the deeper \u003ci>why\u003c/i> of our creative practices. All around me in the extended friend group were artists, healers and teachers — queer women and nonbinary people defining their lives on their own terms, and using their talents to invite others to seek the same freedom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I looked up at the jumbotron, which featured technicolor, nature-inspired designs by \u003ca href=\"https://favianna.com/\">Favianna Rodriguez\u003c/a>, an Oakland visual artist and activist whose radiant butterflies have decorated protest signs calling for climate justice and reproductive freedom all over the world. It was Rodriguez who first opened my eyes to the power of art to move hearts and shape social movements when I went to a talk of hers over a decade ago, when I was first embarking upon my journalism career. It’s a pillar that underpins most of my writing all these years later. And there she was courtside, an accomplished queer woman dedicated to liberation, being honored in a stadium of 18,064 screaming fans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Ballhalla gets it\u003c/i>, I thought. \u003cem>This is bigger than basketball.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13980788\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13980788\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed.jpg\" alt=\"two fans whip lavender shirts over heads in crowd\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fans cheer as the Golden State Valkyries scored during their WNBA season opener against the Los Angeles Sparks at Chase Center on May 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Then, of course, there was the actual game, which had me and my friends gasping and screaming as the Valkyries eked out a narrow lead. In the fourth quarter, forward Kayla Thornton sunk her fourth three-pointer, long braids whipping behind her as she ran down the court, and the arena erupted with ecstatic cheers. It hit me that these 18,064 people of all genders, ethnicities and ages were here to celebrate not just the home team, but an entire culture that has grown around these fierce women. [aside postid='arts_13980855']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]hat realization felt significant on a bone-deep level, especially when I considered the ways the U.S. has backslid on women’s and trans rights in recent years. \u003ca href=\"https://www.teenvogue.com/story/how-tradwives-use-sexism-racism-and-transphobia-to-police-other-women\">Tradwife discourse\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.ibtimes.co.uk/where-did-all-big-girls-go-lizzo-sounds-alarm-ozempic-culture-1757458\">Ozempic campaigns\u003c/a>. The loss of abortion access after the Supreme Court toppled Roe v. Wade. The ongoing, ever-more-hostile attacks on trans people’s access to medical care. Vice President J.D. Vance’s statements that people without children \u003ca href=\"https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/2024-election/jd-vance-allotting-votes-people-children-thought-experiment-rcna166140\">should have fewer voting rights\u003c/a>. His infamous 2024 comments deriding “childless cat ladies,” echoing a tired insult that’s been leveled at women who don’t hinge their happiness on male approval \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13891913/how-the-crazy-cat-lady-became-one-of-pop-cultures-most-enduring-sexist-tropes\">since the witch trials of the 1300s\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whether from celebrities, social media or the highest halls of power, women and LGBTQ+ people are once again inundated with messaging about how we should shrink and contort ourselves into boxes — boxes that many of us don’t fit into as we strive to live full, empowered lives.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984643\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984643\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Valkyries player Cecilia Zandalasini shoots the basketball as fans watch in anticipation.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Game 2 of the Valkyries vs. Minnesota Lynx WNBA playoff game at the SAP Center in San Jose on Sept. 17, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, on the court, in the media and in their fight for fair pay, players like the Las Vegas Aces’ A’ja Wilson and Minnesota Lynx’s Napheesa Collier, and coaches like Valkyries’ Natalie Nakase, are unafraid to take up space. They don’t apologize for their ambition — they let it roar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n 2025, the Valkyries made history: They broke attendance records by selling out the Chase Center for every game, and became the first expansion team to make it to the playoffs. The WNBA has enjoyed its largest attendance numbers since its inception, with plans to expand the league to 18 teams by 2030. It’s worth celebrating that the WNBA achieved that mainstream popularity without players sacrificing their authenticity. [ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some of the league’s most visible personalities, the Lynx’s Court Williams and Natisha Hiedeman — aka StudBudz — are proudly masculine-of-center lesbians with a passionate following that transcends race and gender lines. Indeed, 57% of WNBA fans are men, and young boys are a growing part of that demographic. They want to see women win, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If the past few years have taught us anything, it’s that in 2026, women and trans people have to be prepared to defend a growing list of freedoms that we might’ve taken for granted in the past. But there’s power in the collective. The joy, solidarity and awe I’ve experienced at WNBA games reminds me that another world is possible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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 was a particularly glorious \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/sf-pride\">San Francisco Pride\u003c/a> weekend. My jeans had grass stains from a sunny afternoon at Dolores Park, and my heart was on fire from the passion and solidarity I witnessed at the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13858877/how-the-trans-community-reclaimed-its-rightful-place-at-pride\">Trans March\u003c/a>. After we joined a pink, white and blue procession of gender-nonconforming people demanding dignity down Market Street, one of my best friends and I took Muni to the Chase Center and stepped into a sea of violet, lavender and lilac. I had been to professional basketball games before, but there was another level of excitement vibrating through the stadium during the first-ever Pride game of the Bay Area WNBA team’s inaugural season.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984641\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984641\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-scaled.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/IMG_9576-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">KQED Arts & Culture’s Nastia Voynovskaya courtside at Chase Center during the Valkyries’ warm-up on Aug. 19, 2025. \u003ccite>(Tâm Vũ/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Valkyries won against the Chicago Sky, yes, but what stood out the most to me were the moments of connection and community, large and small. Throughout the Valkyries’ inaugural season, Ballhalla — as their home court is known — became a super queer, massive celebration of women’s raw power and strength. In a year when conservative ideas about gender made a major comeback, this was the antidote I didn’t know I needed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">F\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>rom the players, to the creative luminaries on the jumbotron, to the fans in the stands, my first Valkyries game felt completely different from any other professional sports experience. Seated next to me was a friend of a friend, and we hit it off in a conversation that began with basketball and ended with spirituality and the deeper \u003ci>why\u003c/i> of our creative practices. All around me in the extended friend group were artists, healers and teachers — queer women and nonbinary people defining their lives on their own terms, and using their talents to invite others to seek the same freedom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I looked up at the jumbotron, which featured technicolor, nature-inspired designs by \u003ca href=\"https://favianna.com/\">Favianna Rodriguez\u003c/a>, an Oakland visual artist and activist whose radiant butterflies have decorated protest signs calling for climate justice and reproductive freedom all over the world. It was Rodriguez who first opened my eyes to the power of art to move hearts and shape social movements when I went to a talk of hers over a decade ago, when I was first embarking upon my journalism career. It’s a pillar that underpins most of my writing all these years later. And there she was courtside, an accomplished queer woman dedicated to liberation, being honored in a stadium of 18,064 screaming fans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Ballhalla gets it\u003c/i>, I thought. \u003cem>This is bigger than basketball.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13980788\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13980788\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed.jpg\" alt=\"two fans whip lavender shirts over heads in crowd\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/20250516_ValkyriesHomeOpener_GC-43_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fans cheer as the Golden State Valkyries scored during their WNBA season opener against the Los Angeles Sparks at Chase Center on May 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Then, of course, there was the actual game, which had me and my friends gasping and screaming as the Valkyries eked out a narrow lead. In the fourth quarter, forward Kayla Thornton sunk her fourth three-pointer, long braids whipping behind her as she ran down the court, and the arena erupted with ecstatic cheers. It hit me that these 18,064 people of all genders, ethnicities and ages were here to celebrate not just the home team, but an entire culture that has grown around these fierce women. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>hat realization felt significant on a bone-deep level, especially when I considered the ways the U.S. has backslid on women’s and trans rights in recent years. \u003ca href=\"https://www.teenvogue.com/story/how-tradwives-use-sexism-racism-and-transphobia-to-police-other-women\">Tradwife discourse\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.ibtimes.co.uk/where-did-all-big-girls-go-lizzo-sounds-alarm-ozempic-culture-1757458\">Ozempic campaigns\u003c/a>. The loss of abortion access after the Supreme Court toppled Roe v. Wade. The ongoing, ever-more-hostile attacks on trans people’s access to medical care. Vice President J.D. Vance’s statements that people without children \u003ca href=\"https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/2024-election/jd-vance-allotting-votes-people-children-thought-experiment-rcna166140\">should have fewer voting rights\u003c/a>. His infamous 2024 comments deriding “childless cat ladies,” echoing a tired insult that’s been leveled at women who don’t hinge their happiness on male approval \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13891913/how-the-crazy-cat-lady-became-one-of-pop-cultures-most-enduring-sexist-tropes\">since the witch trials of the 1300s\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whether from celebrities, social media or the highest halls of power, women and LGBTQ+ people are once again inundated with messaging about how we should shrink and contort ourselves into boxes — boxes that many of us don’t fit into as we strive to live full, empowered lives.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984643\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984643\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Valkyries player Cecilia Zandalasini shoots the basketball as fans watch in anticipation.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/250917-VALKYRIESPLAYOFFS-14-BL_QED-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Game 2 of the Valkyries vs. Minnesota Lynx WNBA playoff game at the SAP Center in San Jose on Sept. 17, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, on the court, in the media and in their fight for fair pay, players like the Las Vegas Aces’ A’ja Wilson and Minnesota Lynx’s Napheesa Collier, and coaches like Valkyries’ Natalie Nakase, are unafraid to take up space. They don’t apologize for their ambition — they let it roar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n 2025, the Valkyries made history: They broke attendance records by selling out the Chase Center for every game, and became the first expansion team to make it to the playoffs. The WNBA has enjoyed its largest attendance numbers since its inception, with plans to expand the league to 18 teams by 2030. It’s worth celebrating that the WNBA achieved that mainstream popularity without players sacrificing their authenticity. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some of the league’s most visible personalities, the Lynx’s Court Williams and Natisha Hiedeman — aka StudBudz — are proudly masculine-of-center lesbians with a passionate following that transcends race and gender lines. Indeed, 57% of WNBA fans are men, and young boys are a growing part of that demographic. They want to see women win, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If the past few years have taught us anything, it’s that in 2026, women and trans people have to be prepared to defend a growing list of freedoms that we might’ve taken for granted in the past. But there’s power in the collective. The joy, solidarity and awe I’ve experienced at WNBA games reminds me that another world is possible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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]ail has always been boring for me. Besides the occasional package, I’ve never truly enjoyed the inconvenience of checking my mailbox. What do I get from rifling through envelopes filled with phone bills, student loan statements and my alma mater asking for donations?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Recently, though, I’ve rushed to check my mail every day, tossing aside all other envelopes for the real treasure: a handwritten letter from a friend. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Screenshot-2025-12-08-at-11.49.34%E2%80%AFAM.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"180\" height=\"207\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-13833985\">Long-distance friendships should hypothetically have a higher success rate these days, considering that phone calls are readily available at our fingertips. It’s easy, \u003cem>too\u003c/em> easy. We get lost in the routine of everyday life, and relationships become subject to “catch-up” phone calls that never seem to fully satiate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, at this stage in life, I’ve noticed myself rejecting conveniences that were supposed to make life easier. Maybe it’s nostalgia from growing up in the early days of the internet, when families shared one computer and took turns sending emails and playing games. Life felt slower. Now, texting, calling, using your phone, even sending emails — things that were supposed to make life easier – only make me yearn for something softer, slower even. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I write letters to my first college friend, who I got close to during a Zoom breakout room — we’ve been inseparable ever since. Now, when I sit down to write her letters, I’m back in my childhood bedroom, where technically we first met.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I sit down to write, I often use a pen issued by my college newspaper; my editor called it “the best pen on campus.” I’ll admit, the pen is irritating, its flow too inconsistent. But when I’m using it, I think of college, and all the friends I’ve given the same pen to, lying to them about its quality. My best friend from the newspaper sends me collages and coasters, and sometimes signs the letter from her and her cat. Maybe she also uses the same pen I use.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13984617\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For as long as I can remember, my whole purpose was outlined for me on a syllabus. Post-grad, there’s been more freedom to do what I want. No exams to study for. No papers to dwell on. I’m thinking less about deadlines, and more about \u003cem>why\u003c/em> I do what I do. I’m no longer cramming for exams or pulling all-nighters. I’m choosing things simply because they matter to me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is my first step. Ink on paper, a message sealed and stamped. A letter is small, though the meaning is not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Letters have become collectible items in my circle of friends. They’re memorabilia we keep hung up on our fridges like good grades, or tacked on onto our walls like a piece of artwork, and maybe even framed on a desk to keep us in high spirits. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This pen-pal endeavor has done more than give me something to look forward to. It’s fueled me in a creative way. I’m finding time to not only write, but relight the artistic spirit I once lost. I spend about an hour a week – sometimes more if I’m feeling extra crafty – writing a letter to all my friends. It’s become a form of self-care. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Collages, felt bookmarks and magnets. My friends and I have gotten imaginative with what we can fit in a standard sized envelope. And when they don’t fit, or I dismayingly run out of envelopes, I make my own with old magazine pages. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes I imagine myself decades from now opening a box filled to the brim with these letters, reading through them all like an epistolary novel. A time capsule of our twenties when we were desperately trying to figure ourselves out. Friendships that weren’t only lived, but documented. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13984616\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve learned a lot about myself since I’ve started sending letters. One is that stamps are way more expensive than I thought they would be. Second, I’m a perfectionist to a fault. I knew this to be true when I found myself crumpling up letters that were almost finished because I spelled something wrong toward the end. (I’ve since fallen out of this habit and have embraced the look of scribbled-out words). \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, I’ve learned that when I think about the things I want to be known for, I don’t want them to be the texts I forget about in a matter of hours. Instead, let it be a box of letters — messages crafted with intention. \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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>ail has always been boring for me. Besides the occasional package, I’ve never truly enjoyed the inconvenience of checking my mailbox. What do I get from rifling through envelopes filled with phone bills, student loan statements and my alma mater asking for donations?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Recently, though, I’ve rushed to check my mail every day, tossing aside all other envelopes for the real treasure: a handwritten letter from a friend. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/Screenshot-2025-12-08-at-11.49.34%E2%80%AFAM.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"180\" height=\"207\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-13833985\">Long-distance friendships should hypothetically have a higher success rate these days, considering that phone calls are readily available at our fingertips. It’s easy, \u003cem>too\u003c/em> easy. We get lost in the routine of everyday life, and relationships become subject to “catch-up” phone calls that never seem to fully satiate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, at this stage in life, I’ve noticed myself rejecting conveniences that were supposed to make life easier. Maybe it’s nostalgia from growing up in the early days of the internet, when families shared one computer and took turns sending emails and playing games. Life felt slower. Now, texting, calling, using your phone, even sending emails — things that were supposed to make life easier – only make me yearn for something softer, slower even. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I write letters to my first college friend, who I got close to during a Zoom breakout room — we’ve been inseparable ever since. Now, when I sit down to write her letters, I’m back in my childhood bedroom, where technically we first met.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I sit down to write, I often use a pen issued by my college newspaper; my editor called it “the best pen on campus.” I’ll admit, the pen is irritating, its flow too inconsistent. But when I’m using it, I think of college, and all the friends I’ve given the same pen to, lying to them about its quality. My best friend from the newspaper sends me collages and coasters, and sometimes signs the letter from her and her cat. Maybe she also uses the same pen I use.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13984617\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/img_9866-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For as long as I can remember, my whole purpose was outlined for me on a syllabus. Post-grad, there’s been more freedom to do what I want. No exams to study for. No papers to dwell on. I’m thinking less about deadlines, and more about \u003cem>why\u003c/em> I do what I do. I’m no longer cramming for exams or pulling all-nighters. I’m choosing things simply because they matter to me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is my first step. Ink on paper, a message sealed and stamped. A letter is small, though the meaning is not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Letters have become collectible items in my circle of friends. They’re memorabilia we keep hung up on our fridges like good grades, or tacked on onto our walls like a piece of artwork, and maybe even framed on a desk to keep us in high spirits. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This pen-pal endeavor has done more than give me something to look forward to. It’s fueled me in a creative way. I’m finding time to not only write, but relight the artistic spirit I once lost. I spend about an hour a week – sometimes more if I’m feeling extra crafty – writing a letter to all my friends. It’s become a form of self-care. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Collages, felt bookmarks and magnets. My friends and I have gotten imaginative with what we can fit in a standard sized envelope. And when they don’t fit, or I dismayingly run out of envelopes, I make my own with old magazine pages. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes I imagine myself decades from now opening a box filled to the brim with these letters, reading through them all like an epistolary novel. A time capsule of our twenties when we were desperately trying to figure ourselves out. Friendships that weren’t only lived, but documented. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-13984616\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/12/GettyImages-1268402696-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve learned a lot about myself since I’ve started sending letters. One is that stamps are way more expensive than I thought they would be. Second, I’m a perfectionist to a fault. I knew this to be true when I found myself crumpling up letters that were almost finished because I spelled something wrong toward the end. (I’ve since fallen out of this habit and have embraced the look of scribbled-out words). \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, I’ve learned that when I think about the things I want to be known for, I don’t want them to be the texts I forget about in a matter of hours. Instead, let it be a box of letters — messages crafted with intention. \u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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]here’s a phrase we use in my house when it looks like things aren’t going our way: “Put it on the stairs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These four words stem from a visit I made to City Lights bookstore a few years ago to drop off zines based on my KQED series, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\">Rebel Girls From Bay Area History\u003c/a>. After discovering that City Lights no longer had zine shelves, I asked an employee where I could leave mine. When he told me to “put them on the stairs” to the poetry room, I very nearly didn’t. Off in the quietest corner of the bustling bookstore, I was convinced that no one would ever find them there. I half-heartedly left a half-stack, and went grumbling on my way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-13882786\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2020/07/Rae-Alexandra-KQED_180_final.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"180\" height=\"198\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/07/Rae-Alexandra-KQED_180_final.jpg 180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/07/Rae-Alexandra-KQED_180_final-160x176.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 180px) 100vw, 180px\">What I hadn’t realized is that the stairs to the poetry room are also the stairs to the publisher’s office. Putting the zines on the stairs resulted in City Lights contacting me the following week and asking if I’d be interested in turning Rebel Girls into a book. City Lights will release that collection, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">\u003cem>Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, in April 2026.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ever since, when my boyfriend and I say “Put it on the stairs,” we’re reminding each other that momentary disappointments can sometimes lead to opportunities we never saw coming.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We spent a good portion of our summer with a recurring disappointment so panic-inducing, however, we completely forgot to remind each other to put it on the stairs. That disappointment? A seemingly possessed cat we were terrified of getting permanently stuck with.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I named him Kevin, after the murderous teenage boy from Lionel Shriver’s disturbing novel, \u003cem>We Need to Talk About Kevin\u003c/em>. “If you were a human,” I told Kevin in a baby voice every time he inflicted a new injury on me, “you’d grow up to be a school shooter, \u003cem>yes you would\u003c/em>!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We did not invite Kevin into our home on purpose. Earlier this year, we took it upon ourselves to take in a pregnant street cat, after seeing her alone for weeks and rapidly increasing in size. A few days after arriving, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13978816/stray-cats-rescue-bay-area-adoption-tnr-feral-cat-town\">Susan birthed seven kittens in my closet\u003c/a> and we proceeded to do all we could to nurture and socialize her babies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13978816']Once they were old enough, we went about getting the kittens into homes with friends and coworkers. Adopters came and went and took away their picks of the litter. Despite our best efforts to present Kevin as a fun addition to anyone’s family, no one was fooled. He was patently chaos in cat form. As five of his sisters and brothers went off to new homes, Kevin stayed with us, perpetually unchosen, and never not screaming at us for more food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We came close to getting rid of Kevin three times. He was picked by one 12-year-old boy, who was quickly redirected to another (calmer) kitten by his parents. A friend of a friend hit me up online and said she’d happily add Kevin to her brood of three cats and six foster kittens — then backed out the day before she was supposed to pick him up. After that, Kevin went to someone’s home for a three-day trial period. This lovely woman elicited warm purrs from him easily, which gave me high hopes. If only Kevin didn’t have a penchant for climbing bare legs with his extended claws, that one might have worked out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We tried so very hard to get rid of him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Kevin grew into a bigger cat, we knew his chances of adoption were getting slimmer. It didn’t help that once his legs got longer he started walking with the gait of John Wayne. We had decided early on to keep his mother and one of his well-behaved little sisters. As time ticked along, we panicked daily about the fact that we might get stuck with three cats, one of whom may be a minion of the Antichrist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984123\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1194px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984123\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/11/Screenshot-2025-11-25-at-9.47.43%E2%80%AFPM.png\" alt=\"A black and white sticker showing the face of a young cat with KEVIN written in block letters underneath.\" width=\"1194\" height=\"1194\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/11/Screenshot-2025-11-25-at-9.47.43 PM.png 1194w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/11/Screenshot-2025-11-25-at-9.47.43 PM-160x160.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/11/Screenshot-2025-11-25-at-9.47.43 PM-768x768.png 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1194px) 100vw, 1194px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">My friend Joe made this Kevin sticker. Because Kevin is basically Glenn Danzig and we all know it. \u003ccite>(Joe Dissolvo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>That was months ago now and Kevin is, of course, still with us. It got to the point where it would have been cruel to break up the deep bond he shares with his sister. Kevin is still the strangest cat I’ve ever met. But Kevin is, despite all of my best efforts, unequivocally \u003cem>mine\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our attachment to one another formed slowly. It started with Kevin figuring out that making me bleed every 10 minutes wasn’t something I enjoyed very much. (Now he only does it twice a week!) Then he surmised that indulging in daily cuddlefests (during which he places his paws gently on my face) makes us both very happy indeed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13983145']I started to appreciate his quirks. Like, he is absolutely terrified of the heating and screams continually when it’s on. He only plays with dog toys and food containers. He knows how to remove his own collar and does so with a “Ta da!” expression on his face. (He has lost or destroyed nine collars in five months.) Every time I tell him I love him, he bites my face. After I risked life and limb rescuing him from the massive tree in our yard, he immediately climbed onto the roof and just … stared at me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For some reason, I love all of this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So much so, I now believe that Kevin was the entire reason fate plopped a giant pregnant cat onto our doorstep in the first place. After failing at every turn to consider that something positive might ever come out of Kevin being so unadoptable, he is, by far, my favorite thing from 2025. I also realize now that life would have been infinitely easier for those months of desperate, failed re-homings if we had just sat back and accepted that fate was going to do its thing, no matter what we did.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As this fraught year draws to a close, I want Kevin to be a pertinent reminder to us all that the little things bumming us out today might just lead to the things that make us happiest tomorrow. Start putting all those everyday stresses on the stairs. You never know where that might lead in 2026.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>This week, as we near the end of 2025, 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>here’s a phrase we use in my house when it looks like things aren’t going our way: “Put it on the stairs.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These four words stem from a visit I made to City Lights bookstore a few years ago to drop off zines based on my KQED series, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\">Rebel Girls From Bay Area History\u003c/a>. After discovering that City Lights no longer had zine shelves, I asked an employee where I could leave mine. When he told me to “put them on the stairs” to the poetry room, I very nearly didn’t. Off in the quietest corner of the bustling bookstore, I was convinced that no one would ever find them there. I half-heartedly left a half-stack, and went grumbling on my way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-13882786\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2020/07/Rae-Alexandra-KQED_180_final.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"180\" height=\"198\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/07/Rae-Alexandra-KQED_180_final.jpg 180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/07/Rae-Alexandra-KQED_180_final-160x176.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 180px) 100vw, 180px\">What I hadn’t realized is that the stairs to the poetry room are also the stairs to the publisher’s office. Putting the zines on the stairs resulted in City Lights contacting me the following week and asking if I’d be interested in turning Rebel Girls into a book. City Lights will release that collection, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">\u003cem>Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, in April 2026.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ever since, when my boyfriend and I say “Put it on the stairs,” we’re reminding each other that momentary disappointments can sometimes lead to opportunities we never saw coming.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We spent a good portion of our summer with a recurring disappointment so panic-inducing, however, we completely forgot to remind each other to put it on the stairs. That disappointment? A seemingly possessed cat we were terrified of getting permanently stuck with.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I named him Kevin, after the murderous teenage boy from Lionel Shriver’s disturbing novel, \u003cem>We Need to Talk About Kevin\u003c/em>. “If you were a human,” I told Kevin in a baby voice every time he inflicted a new injury on me, “you’d grow up to be a school shooter, \u003cem>yes you would\u003c/em>!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We did not invite Kevin into our home on purpose. Earlier this year, we took it upon ourselves to take in a pregnant street cat, after seeing her alone for weeks and rapidly increasing in size. A few days after arriving, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13978816/stray-cats-rescue-bay-area-adoption-tnr-feral-cat-town\">Susan birthed seven kittens in my closet\u003c/a> and we proceeded to do all we could to nurture and socialize her babies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Once they were old enough, we went about getting the kittens into homes with friends and coworkers. Adopters came and went and took away their picks of the litter. Despite our best efforts to present Kevin as a fun addition to anyone’s family, no one was fooled. He was patently chaos in cat form. As five of his sisters and brothers went off to new homes, Kevin stayed with us, perpetually unchosen, and never not screaming at us for more food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We came close to getting rid of Kevin three times. He was picked by one 12-year-old boy, who was quickly redirected to another (calmer) kitten by his parents. A friend of a friend hit me up online and said she’d happily add Kevin to her brood of three cats and six foster kittens — then backed out the day before she was supposed to pick him up. After that, Kevin went to someone’s home for a three-day trial period. This lovely woman elicited warm purrs from him easily, which gave me high hopes. If only Kevin didn’t have a penchant for climbing bare legs with his extended claws, that one might have worked out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We tried so very hard to get rid of him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Kevin grew into a bigger cat, we knew his chances of adoption were getting slimmer. It didn’t help that once his legs got longer he started walking with the gait of John Wayne. We had decided early on to keep his mother and one of his well-behaved little sisters. As time ticked along, we panicked daily about the fact that we might get stuck with three cats, one of whom may be a minion of the Antichrist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13984123\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1194px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13984123\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/11/Screenshot-2025-11-25-at-9.47.43%E2%80%AFPM.png\" alt=\"A black and white sticker showing the face of a young cat with KEVIN written in block letters underneath.\" width=\"1194\" height=\"1194\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/11/Screenshot-2025-11-25-at-9.47.43 PM.png 1194w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/11/Screenshot-2025-11-25-at-9.47.43 PM-160x160.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/11/Screenshot-2025-11-25-at-9.47.43 PM-768x768.png 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1194px) 100vw, 1194px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">My friend Joe made this Kevin sticker. Because Kevin is basically Glenn Danzig and we all know it. \u003ccite>(Joe Dissolvo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>That was months ago now and Kevin is, of course, still with us. It got to the point where it would have been cruel to break up the deep bond he shares with his sister. Kevin is still the strangest cat I’ve ever met. But Kevin is, despite all of my best efforts, unequivocally \u003cem>mine\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our attachment to one another formed slowly. It started with Kevin figuring out that making me bleed every 10 minutes wasn’t something I enjoyed very much. (Now he only does it twice a week!) Then he surmised that indulging in daily cuddlefests (during which he places his paws gently on my face) makes us both very happy indeed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>I started to appreciate his quirks. Like, he is absolutely terrified of the heating and screams continually when it’s on. He only plays with dog toys and food containers. He knows how to remove his own collar and does so with a “Ta da!” expression on his face. (He has lost or destroyed nine collars in five months.) Every time I tell him I love him, he bites my face. After I risked life and limb rescuing him from the massive tree in our yard, he immediately climbed onto the roof and just … stared at me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For some reason, I love all of this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So much so, I now believe that Kevin was the entire reason fate plopped a giant pregnant cat onto our doorstep in the first place. After failing at every turn to consider that something positive might ever come out of Kevin being so unadoptable, he is, by far, my favorite thing from 2025. I also realize now that life would have been infinitely easier for those months of desperate, failed re-homings if we had just sat back and accepted that fate was going to do its thing, no matter what we did.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As this fraught year draws to a close, I want Kevin to be a pertinent reminder to us all that the little things bumming us out today might just lead to the things that make us happiest tomorrow. Start putting all those everyday stresses on the stairs. You never know where that might lead in 2026.\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]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>\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>\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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"slug": "kendrick-lamar-west-coast-hip-hop-culture",
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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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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
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"marketplace": {
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"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
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"mindshift": {
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"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
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"order": 12
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"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
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"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
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"info": "The economy explained. Imagine you could call up a friend and say, Meet me at the bar and tell me what's going on with the economy. Now imagine that's actually a fun evening.",
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"politicalbreakdown": {
"id": "politicalbreakdown",
"title": "Political Breakdown",
"tagline": "Politics from a personal perspective",
"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
"airtime": "THU 6:30pm-7pm",
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"possible": {
"id": "possible",
"title": "Possible",
"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Possible-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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},
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},
"pri-the-world": {
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"title": "PRI's The World: Latest Edition",
"info": "Each weekday, host Marco Werman and his team of producers bring you the world's most interesting stories in an hour of radio that reminds us just how small our planet really is.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 2pm-3pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-World-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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},
"radiolab": {
"id": "radiolab",
"title": "Radiolab",
"info": "A two-time Peabody Award-winner, Radiolab is an investigation told through sounds and stories, and centered around one big idea. In the Radiolab world, information sounds like music and science and culture collide. Hosted by Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, the show is designed for listeners who demand skepticism, but appreciate wonder. WNYC Studios is the producer of other leading podcasts including Freakonomics Radio, Death, Sex & Money, On the Media and many more.",
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},
"reveal": {
"id": "reveal",
"title": "Reveal",
"info": "Created by The Center for Investigative Reporting and PRX, Reveal is public radios first one-hour weekly radio show and podcast dedicated to investigative reporting. Credible, fact based and without a partisan agenda, Reveal combines the power and artistry of driveway moment storytelling with data-rich reporting on critically important issues. The result is stories that inform and inspire, arming our listeners with information to right injustices, hold the powerful accountable and improve lives.Reveal is hosted by Al Letson and showcases the award-winning work of CIR and newsrooms large and small across the nation. In a radio and podcast market crowded with choices, Reveal focuses on important and often surprising stories that illuminate the world for our listeners.",
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"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/reveal300px.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.revealnews.org/episodes/",
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"link": "/radio/program/reveal",
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"rss": "http://feeds.revealradio.org/revealpodcast"
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},
"rightnowish": {
"id": "rightnowish",
"title": "Rightnowish",
"tagline": "Art is where you find it",
"info": "Rightnowish digs into life in the Bay Area right now… ish. Journalist Pendarvis Harshaw takes us to galleries painted on the sides of liquor stores in West Oakland. We'll dance in warehouses in the Bayview, make smoothies with kids in South Berkeley, and listen to classical music in a 1984 Cutlass Supreme in Richmond. Every week, Pen talks to movers and shakers about how the Bay Area shapes what they create, and how they shape the place we call home.",
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"order": 16
},
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},
"science-friday": {
"id": "science-friday",
"title": "Science Friday",
"info": "Science Friday is a weekly science talk show, broadcast live over public radio stations nationwide. Each week, the show focuses on science topics that are in the news and tries to bring an educated, balanced discussion to bear on the scientific issues at hand. Panels of expert guests join host Ira Flatow, a veteran science journalist, to discuss science and to take questions from listeners during the call-in portion of the program.",
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