Life in California is full of vexing questions. What’s the big deal about abalone, other than the pretty shells? How come your only season is “wildfire”? And what the hell is Dutch crunch?
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!
I recently received an invitation to a cocktail party that suggested “California casual attire.” What does that mean?
—SARTORIALLY STUMPED
STACEY: That’s just a pushy way of saying “Wear whatever you want.” And they included it because “Forget everything you’ve ever learned about presenting yourself in public and come as you are. Dirty pajamas and a tutu? Toe socks and SpongeBob Crocs? Tactical backpack and microaggression-canceling headphones? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. We want you to be entirely in your own world. In fact, we don’t even know why we’re having a party. Just stay home, order a turmeric smoothie, and google your symptoms” won’t fit on the invitation.
Now, if you want to actually lean into the theme, if that’s a thing you think you need to do, then you can interpret “California casual attire” as anything light and breezy. (If you’re a woman, google a picture of Dyan Cannon and copy whatever you see. If you’re a man, google a picture of Dyan Cannon and copy whatever you see.) You can’t go wrong if you drape yourself head to toe in gauze. Just know that if this party takes place in the dead of winter (under 80 degrees Fahrenheit), the espadrilles should be close-toed and you’ll want to layer with an oatmeal sweater (or two).
Just don’t show up in all black. You’re not at New York Fashion Week.
GUSTAVO: Sandals—always sandals. Flip-flops, Birkenstocks, huaraches with soles made from tire treads, slides, open-toed Crocs, or those weird strappy things that hikers wear that seem to have as much high-tech material in them as an Osprey helicopter. Sandals are really the only things that unite Californians—your Trump-worshipping cousin in Visalia will wear them to a party with the same frequency as a weed grower in Humboldt. Sandals for governor in ’26!
If Californians are so mellow, how do you explain Katie Porter? Or better yet, who is the least mellow Californian?
—LIGHTEN UP, GOLDEN STATE
STACEY: I explain Katie Porter like this: She is not from California, she has barely lived in California, and the most California thing about her, if you can even call it that, is that, despite a genetic predisposition to quilting, she never learned to channel her rage any more constructively than the worst Hollywood agent.
The least mellow Californian is a fascinating topic, and I’m reluctant to crown just one champion. I’ve divided the candidates into two groups: Living and Dead, or, if you prefer, Current Cranks and Clenchers Classic.
The winner in the first category beat out two very accomplished runners-up—nervous noirist James Ellroy and churlish chef Alton Brown—by driving his entire band insane with his attention to detail for 50-some years. Congratulations, Lindsey Buckingham, you are the least mellow living Californian. And coming from behind to win a multifront war against Phil Spector, Sam Peckinpah, and Richard Nixon is none other than San Gabriel’s own General George S. Patton. Yes, sir, you are the least mellow Californian of all time. Thank you for helping keep the world safe for peace-loving people everywhere.
GUSTAVO: Stacey, Katie Porter is worse than originally not being from California—she lives in Irvine, the 8th through 11th levels of hell. I appreciate the former Congress member for having turned Orange County purple, but channeling her inner Richard Nixon—a true son of O.C.—is no way to beat Sandals for governor.
But Californians, mellow? I think you’re thinking of Hawaiians. Again, Choleric Katie merely channeled her inner, adopted Golden Stater when she told off a reporter and a staffer in separate incidents. We’re all about the rage, whether it’s at the ballot box with propositions, rioting after sports championships, or fighting over parking spaces at Trader Joe’s. Really, the only mellow people in California live in San Diego, because they don’t want to win at anything. For Chrissakes, San Diegans couldn’t win a tiddlywinks best-of-three if you spotted them the tiddly and the winks.
What’s California’s spookiest ghost story?
—DARE TO BE SCARED
STACEY: The best one I’ve heard lately is about the specter of a low-level staffer who, if you look just right, will appear in the background of your Zoom call and haunt you forever!
Ghosts or no ghosts, the creepiest place in California has to be downtown L.A.’s Cecil Hotel. It’s the setting for many, many deaths (it used to be said that going above a certain floor was taking your life in your hands), can be clearly seen in U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name” video, and was where Richard Ramirez kept a room to unwind in between murders. It’s been completely refurbished and is no longer a hotel, but they say that on dark, dark nights, you can almost make out the figure of a shirtless Adam Clayton roaming the halls.
GUSTAVO: The Winchester Mystery House in San Jose? Maybe. The White Lady of San Juan Capistrano? Probably. The specter of Phil Spector’s hair? Shudder. But I vote for the Ghosts of California Quitters Past, the people whose wails can be heard from Boise and Nashville warning those who are thinking of leaving California to not do it. “I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate”—wait, that was Katie Porter to all of her fellow gubernatorial hopefuls.
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.
