Life in California is full of vexing questions. Has everyone who displays a Mystery Spot bumper sticker actually been there? Will Donald Trump really turn Alcatraz back into a working prison? And why does San Diego boast so many ghosts?
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 park where I like to go running is suddenly brimming with bird-watchers of all ages. They take up a lot of the path and shoot dagger eyes at me when I make too much noise. And it’s not just this one park; I’ve noticed these binocular-clutching types all over. I’m all for celebrating nature, but does everyone have to do it all at once? Is it OK to be not OK with the bird-watchers?
—Binocular Betty
Stacey: Betty, how loudly do you run? Because to my mind, running tends to be somewhat of a stealthy endeavor. Does this “too much noise” you speak of involve a lot of grunting—or shouting, perhaps, about how much you hate all these damn bird-watchers?
I’m sorry this army of nature lovers has invaded your outdoor gym. They’re probably just looking for some shred of innocent beauty left in the world, the poor saps. Have you tried running up to them, flapping your arms, and squawking while you scream “Watch this!”? That sometimes works. Otherwise, you might want to change your running time to evening and take your chances with actual criminals. Either way, the answer to your question, is it OK to be not OK with the bird-watchers, is an unqualified yes. It’s always OK to be not OK with something. I thought that was a given.
Gustavo: Bird-watchers are a bunch of birdbrains who need to leave their hobby to the—who else?—birds. No, seriously. California has such an abundance of avian species—689, according to the California Bird Records Committee—that you can be stuck on the 5 freeway near Downey and see a California condor soaring above everyone, as I swear I did earlier this year. (My friend who lives nearby insisted it was a turkey vulture, but what does he know? He wears a ponytail.) So why hike into the forests to catch a glimpse of quail when those tasty fowl don’t want you there? We’ve already inflicted enough trauma on our fine-feathered friends, which is why I’m with you, Binocular Betty. But we must always be polite, so next time a bird-watcher is in your path, gently but firmly remind them that Birds Aren’t Real™ and are actually little drones commanded by the Trump administration to spy on all aspects of American life. Those birders will shut themselves inside a closet faster than Liberace.
Why is Loma Linda the only Blue Zone in California? Do you think God favors the Seventh-Day Adventists over the atheist, all-organic vaccine skeptics living in places like Mill Valley and Santa Barbara?
—Let’s Live Forever
Stacey: I don’t know if God favors the Seventh-Day Adventists. He’s blessed them with a long, healthy life, but he’s condemned them to live it in Loma Linda. A truly just deity would’ve blessed them with it in Malibu, but that’s God for you! Always joking!
I agree, you’d think the Blue Zone committee would happily give us the whole state. You’d think Sardinia and Okinawa would just step aside and give it to us—we have kefir and purple sweet potatoes too, and ours come in cool Erewhon bags. But what the Blue Zone–dwelling people have over us is commitment. For lack of anything better to do, they’re committed to a plant-focused lifestyle featuring daily physical activity, strong social connections, a sense of purpose, and all those other banalities that make life take so much longer. However, we in California liven up our surroundings by recovering with tubs of beef tallow after tough plyometric jumps classes and fights with our AI boyfriends. It’s its own kind of Blue Zone—a very dark, sort of Black-and-Blue Zone—and it’s ours and ours alone.
Gustavo: You’re referring to the concept—trademarked, dontcha know—that certain areas in the world have conditions of living that allow folks to live to 100 and beyond at a rate far more common than in, say, Redding. Never understood the big hubbub over such places—I thought those communities were called Leisure World. I have no insight into the Blue Zone™ empire because I’m Catholic and a mere baby Gen Xer, so I really can’t say why li’l ol’ Loma Linda with its preponderance of Seventh-Day Adventists has so many golden oldies, nor do I really care. Nothing against the Christian denomination and its vegetarian, laid-back ways—my friend once dated one, and she was really cool until she cheated on him with a Jehovah’s Witness—but if I wanted to hang out with a bunch of centenarians, I’d go to one of my family’s parties. There, our viejitos y viejitas indulge in a diet of carne asada, tequila, ear-splitting banda sinaloense, Catholicism, and crossing the border illegally many times to live their long, beautiful lives—so where’s the Netflix documentary on them? Oh, that’s right: There will be none, because they’re Mexican.
My husband and I seriously considered naming our son California but didn’t. And though I love his name, I sometimes regret not doing this. Did I make the right decision?
—What’s in a Name?
Stacey: You most certainly did, for two opposing yet equally substantial reasons. One: If you were going for an exotic, beat-my-son-up-after-school name, California is way too ordinary. People have been naming their kids after states since before there even were states. (Virginia Dare, anyone?) Generations of Georgias, Virginias, and Carolinas have sipped juleps and died on their porches, and this new crop of Dakotas, Tennessees, and Montanas will do the same with matchas on their parents’ porches. We’ve experienced the rise and fall of a fictional Florida (Evans) and the rise and gradual petering out of a fictional Indiana (Jones). Two: If you were going for an unexotic, beat-my-son-up-after-school-for-other-reasons name, California is too weird. It’s a weird name. You know it is. Plus, not that anyone cares, but notice that a at the end? It’s feminine. To remain linguistically in step, you’d have had to name him Californio, which is fun to say, especially when punching someone after school.
For your next kid or pet, I recommend something more specific, like Diamondbar, but feel free to finger a spinning globe to find another place-name, and let’s hope it doesn’t stop on Austin.
Gustavo: You know what would’ve been a cool compromise? Cali. Could’ve told everyone it was short for Saint Callistus or a longer version of Cal, or even the truth: that you wanted your son to inspire a thousand thought pieces about how No Real Californian calls the state Cali. So what did you end up naming your son—Lodi? Silver Lake? Telegraph Avenue? Gavin?
Next question? advice@altaonline.com •
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.
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.
