Life in California is full of vexing questions. Why is the check-in line at the Monterey Bay Aquarium so complicated? Who decides which recently deceased celebrities make the cut for awards shows’ in memoriam montages? And how many statement necklaces could Nancy Pelosi possibly own?
Alta Journal has enlisted two experts to answer all of your questions: Stacey Grenrock Woods and Gustavo Arellano, both of whom bring decades of hard-won knowledge and laser-sharp insights into the Golden State.
Have a question of your own? Ask a Californian!
The Menendez brothers have been in the news lately, but I’ve always found the Night Stalker a lot scarier. Who’s California’s most notorious criminal?
—Sleeps with the Lights On
Stacey: It’s an age-old question: Who’s scarier, one machete-wielding satanist in Avia sneakers or two shotgun-toting rich kids with pastel sweaters draped over their shoulders? Tough call! In a que es muy homicida battle between Ramirez and Menendez, it’s tempting to award the prize to the Night Stalker, since he’s already got the nickname and it’s much harder to imagine yourself shopping for Top-Siders in Beverly Hills with him. Adoring fans might argue that Lyle and Erik killed only mean people named José and Kitty Menendez (Ramirez was less picky), and if their murder careers hadn’t been tragically cut short, they would have lived out their natural lives peacefully coked-up at the country club, barely blowing anyone else away. But we can’t assume those parasites were purely parricidal. And anyway, I’m not for finding out.
So, who is California’s most notorious criminal? Ramirez is a strong candidate, but in the highly competitive field of California killers, you really have to stand out. Unfortunately, the Hillside Strangler (about whom I have a funny story—don’t let me forget) is a victim of branding confusion: Technically, they’re the Hillside Stranglers, since there were two of them, but the new name’s never really caught on, so they’re disqualified. (A good nickname is key.) Charles Manson could have been a contender—he had showbiz aspirations and ordered his killings after a record producer blew him off—but Manson loses points for making his underlings do his dirty work. Plus, no nickname.
No, California’s—and perhaps the world’s—most notorious criminal has to be the Zodiac killer. He had (has?) it all: great penmanship; the executioner’s hood, which, while a little on the nose, nonetheless really says “serial killer”; and the ciphers were a nice touch. Plus, he kept (keeps?) you guessing with that no-rhyme-or-reason thing. His killings follow no pattern; he might just descend on your nice picnic in that executioner’s hood. But what really gives the Zodiac his staying power is that whole never-been-caught thing. Every few years, a new theory emerges: Could he be your dad’s friend? Could he be your dad? One thing we all know is that we’ll never, ever know. Happy picnicking!
Gustavo: Stacey forgot her funny Hillside Strangler story, so I’ll cover her by trotting out my funny Night Stalker story! In Mr. Cross’s American history class at Anaheim High School in the mid-1990s, a classmate of mine decided to do her biography project on Richard Ramirez. Someone had the bright idea of telling her to write to him and see if he would respond, and, oh, did he. She stood in front of all of us for her presentation, ripped open the envelope from death row, and read the first sentence of a letter from a man who terrorized California for nearly a year and a half during our childhood: “Greetings from hell.”
My classmate screamed, dropped the letter, and ran out of the class. She got an A. Show-off.
Anyway, “most notorious criminal,” like all things Californian, is subjective to where one lives. The Bay Area is all about the Zodiac killer and Zebra murders, which barely register in Southern California. The Owens Valley still isn’t over Los Angeles stealing all of its water that turned the City of Angels from Barstow into heaven and the Owens Valley from Barstow into Bishop. And boomers are comparing Elon Musk to all sorts of marauders for his DOGE-ing of D.C. So let me unite California in hatred and fear of our universal scofflaw: the San Andreas Fault, which just sits there all fault-y waiting to bip us like the giant fragile windshield we are.
Los Angeles is famous (infamous) for its horrible traffic. What’s the most “California” thing you’ve seen on your morning commute?
—Vanity Plate Driver
Stacey: First, I’m flattered that you think I have a morning commute. I’m sure there are still some California writers who regularly drive somewhere—from coffeehouses to picket lines, perhaps—but I’m not among them. My morning commute goes from my bed to my electric kettle to my desk, and the most Californian things you’re likely to see on it are a Silverlake Ramen delivery bag, half a mochi doughnut from Donut Friend, and a rescued Italian greyhound waiting for his bowl of designer food.
However, whether I’m volunteering in a soup kitchen (shut up, I recently did that!) or out trendspotting to serve you better, I spend a lot of time in traffic. I wanted to say that the most California thing I’ve seen recently was Angelyne in a pink Cybertruck, but on second thought, I think I might have dreamt that. One year, after the Oscars, I saw a bunch of 10-foot-high Oscar statues crammed into the back of a flatbed truck on their way back to wherever they spend the rest of the year. Oh, and I once saw Daryl Hannah and Jackson Browne rollerblading in Santa Monica. I defy anyone to top that.
But the most California thing I saw recently didn’t happen in traffic. It was when I saw myself, at a party at a film director’s house in Glendale, reflected in the mirror of a room once rented by Hillside Strangler Kenneth Bianchi. I told you I had a funny Hillside Strangler story!
Gustavo: There’s Stacey’s homicidal humor! As for the question, I can’t truly answer it because this is a family publication, but let’s just say that if what I saw was a porno, it would be called “Grand Sex Auto”—and that’s the PG title. So I’ll instead go with the ritual that is eating a breakfast burrito, salsa and chips and all, which real Californians can do whether traffic is at a standstill or going 85 miles per hour. Hell, the DMV should put that feat on its driving test—would weed out all the Texans and New Yorkers from our roads, you know?
If you could choose, what would be California’s official state meal?
—Feeling Famished
Stacey: That’s a tough one. Definitely not avocado toast—that’s what the rest of the country wants me to say, but really, I only first heard of the stuff when I saw it on a menu in the early aughts. While I’ve got nothing against it, avocado toast is not organically Californian.
I’m inclined to say Chinese chicken salad, specifically the one from Chin Chin. Legend has it that the dish was invented by Madame Wu at Madame Wu’s Garden in Santa Monica, possibly in the ’60s, to appease a hungry Cary Grant. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do like to imagine him asking for a “tangy salad with some of those puffy noodles.” Later, in 1983, both Wolfgang Puck’s and Chin Chin’s versions came on the scene, but—likely because of the chain’s strategic Sunset Plaza and Studio City placements—Chin Chin’s was the one that spread to the masses (if you consider, as I do, the Hiltons and the Kardashians the masses). It’s barely Chinese and barely a salad. It’s saucy and loud and misrepresenting itself a little bit. In other words, it’s quintessentially Californian.
That said, I would choose Pioneer chicken strips and chips with mashed potatoes. This après-ballet meal from our (nearly) dearly departed chicken franchise sustained me through my childhood and adolescence and grew me into the medical marvel I am now. Pioneer is one of the only restaurants mentioned in a Warren Zevon song, which makes it deeply Californian, and this off-menu order of my invention is notable for its bold substitution work. (What kind of heathen eats a fried side with a fried main? British people, don’t answer.)
But to make any meal truly Californian, one must add at least three beverages (good choices are a matcha, an espresso drink, and a THC-infused elderberry soda) and one very expensive wellness shot to it. In fact, maybe that’s the whole meal.
Gustavo: Not In-N-Out, which is overrated. Tacos are too easy a choice, as is a dish from any of our celebrity chefs, whether Alice Waters, the aforementioned Puck, or Jack I. Box. Can’t pick something popular in San Francisco or Los Angeles because San Diego will throw a fit and the Central Valley will feel left behind yet again. So how about a Hangtown fry? The gold rush–era omelet with oysters and bacon in its original version is a big, ostentatious mess—just like California! Except for San Diego, which is so made up and perfect and shit.
Next question? advice@altaonline.com•
Gustavo Arellano is the author of Orange County: A Personal History and Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America. In 2025, Arellano was named a Pulitzer Prize finalist for his work as a columnist for the Los Angeles Times. He was formerly editor of OC Weekly, an alternative newspaper in Orange County, California, and penned the award-winning ¡Ask a Mexican!, a nationally syndicated column in which he answered any and all questions about America’s spiciest and largest minority. Arellano is the recipient of awards ranging from the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies Best Columnist to the Los Angeles Press Club President’s Award to an Impact Award from the National Hispanic Media Coalition, and he was recognized by the California Latino Legislative Caucus with a 2008 Spirit Award for his “exceptional vision, creativity, and work ethic.” Arellano is a lifelong resident of Orange County and is the proud son of two Mexican immigrants, one of whom came to this country in the trunk of a Chevy.
Stacey Grenrock Woods is a regular contributor to Esquire and a former correspondent for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. She writes and consults on various TV shows, and has a recurring role as Tricia Thoon on Fox’s Arrested Development. Her first book is I, California.
