Jem Ruf

The Santa Anas stir the ghosts of California. All Californians know it. As the wind rushes down the hills, we expect something bracing and invigorating. But it defies us — hot, blowing to the sea, cracking our lips.

But social media isn’t just the mere transmission of an image or an idea; it's curation of the self, and thus its aesthetics are wrought in a complex psycho-social cauldron.

He watched as a big, mangy deer burst through the tree line, glorious even though it was emaciated.  It was the first deer K.C. had seen in 10 years.

They’d bought shoes. They put an advertisement in the paper the next week. But they didn’t need the money, really.

The swim club, I later found out, has been there for over a hundred years; for a hundred years, I imagine, this morning ritual has been left unchanged.

Whispering something coy and lean, he chuckles: “We have neon lights in the mountains and dueling pianos between trout streams.”

With the help of his coaches and his strong work ethic, Manzo took step after step — diligently following a path that led to Cal.

It was a beautiful day in Strawberry Canyon, and so was the rugby as two of the top collegiate teams in the nation converged onto the immaculate pitch at Witter Rugby Field.