Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: I said, 'I love you.' She quickly replied, 'As a friend, right?'
My eyes scanned the crowd in the arrivals area of Terminal 5 at Los Angeles International Airport. Then I saw her face, framed by a curtain of espresso-colored hair, peeking out from behind a cement pillar.
We had never met before face to face, but I knew Stacy and everything about her. Her arms reached out to wrap around me, and she squeezed hard. Her hug held the intoxicating scent of jasmine, reminding me of stolen summer nights capturing fireflies. This hug, forged in two years of whispered messages and stolen phone calls, felt like a homecoming to a place I had only dreamed of.
Two years prior, on Jan. 17, 1994, the Northridge earthquake shook her parents’ Porter Ranch home violently, waking her and her family from their slumber. In the aftermath of the quake, as the San Fernando Valley itself was adrift, there was no school at Granada Hills High School, no movies and no trips to Bullock’s at the Northridge Fashion Center. Instead, she sought solace from boredom by dialing into America Online and joining one of the many chat rooms, searching for something to cure the monotony.
Meanwhile, a world away in Connecticut, a blizzard had painted the landscape white across New England, dumping feet of snow and ice. Schools were closed for a few days, and I also dialed into AOL in search of an answer to teenage boredom. Hiding behind a computer screen, hoping to share a flirtatious moment with a girl, I joined a teen chat room. Almost immediately, I saw her screen name, Stacyface. She was very witty and had razor-sharp quips, parrying every attempt at connection with playful defiance. A ritual of teenage hieroglyphics unfolded, etched in the flickering glow of the screen.
Pun1sher: hi.
Stacyface: a/s/l
Pun1sher: 14/m/CT u?
Stacyface: 14/f/LA
The awkwardness that only AOL instant messages could spawn stretched for an eternity. Then inspiration struck. What better way to prove our existence than to share our voices? My heart was thundering like a war drum as I dialed.
“Hello?” she said, the air thick with nervous static.
“Hi,” I said. My voice was a mere squeak trapped in the vastness of the phone line. My pubescent nerves did a pirouette in my stomach as we hung up, retreating to the haven of instant messages. Our hearts were fluttering like trapped butterflies.
For months, we found each other on AOL and instant messaged each other daily. AOL became our confession booth, the dial-up hum connecting two souls across a continent. We called each other nightly, discussing the trials and tribulations of our teenage lives. We sent letters in the mail and via email and exchanged birthday and Valentine’s Day gifts. We called each other so often that we lived in fear of our parents when the phone bill arrived monthly.
After a year of our digital friendship, I sat 3,000 miles away in my bedroom, but one night, I said to her: “I love you.” Almost without processing, she quickly replied, “As a friend, right?” Without wanting to rock our relationship at all, I said, “Yes.” In hindsight, we were in love with each other, but only one of us was willing to admit it. A year into this digital long-distance relationship, we told our parents it was time for us to meet. They decided that if, in another year, we were still friends, I would fly to Los Angeles and we would meet.
Back at LAX, Stacy hugged me tightly as her mom, Cheryl, came over to greet me. One of the strangest and most awkward experiences you can ever imagine is knowing someone so intimately from talking on the phone for hundreds of hours but never having met them in person. Her family graciously allowed me to stay with them for a week and they showed this small-town New Englander all that Los Angeles had to offer.
I was enthralled and fell in love with Los Angeles: dinner in Beverly Hills with a tour of Rodeo Drive, tickets for “The Tonight Show With Jay Leno,” a Dodger game, shopping at a lot of the stores on Ventura Boulevard, a day spent at Universal Studios Hollywood, a day spent at Disneyland, shopping at Third Street Promenade, and driving up Pacific Coast Highway with a tour of Malibu and hitting Froggy’s in Topanga on the way home. Seeing L.A. this way made me fall just as hard for the city as I did for Stacy. We shared our first kiss before I left to go back to Connecticut. Perhaps it was that kiss that sealed our fate.
Another year passed, and the time spent on the phone melted into a kaleidoscope of shared jokes, whispered vulnerabilities and a slow-burning ache that was blooming into something undeniable. As a senior in high school, the path on where I would end up for college was constantly on my mind. I wanted to work in the entertainment industry. L.A. was a likely candidate, but so was New York. One day, three years after we started talking, Stacy laid it out clearly for me: “I think that if you don’t go to school in California, there really is no point for us to continue to have a relationship.” Wow, the old ultimatum.
I started as a freshman in the cinema and television arts program at California State University, Northridge, joining Stacy at the school in August of that year. I told my friends and family that CSUN had an excellent TV program, which was the primary reason I was there. But the reality was that I loved Stacy, and she loved me; there was no place I would rather be than with her.
The author is the director of rights and clearances at “Access Hollywood” and E! News. He has been married to Stacy for 17 years and has two children. They reside in Porter Ranch. He’s on Instagram: @orourkesean
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Lifestyle
We’re having a main character summer. Are you? : It’s Been a Minute
Lifestyle
Vintage-obsessed millennial parents are driving L.A.’s booming kids’ clothing resale market
Kids’ vintage clothing sales are experiencing a remarkable boom at in-person markets and online, where prices for clothes for little ones have shot up on websites including Depop and Poshmark. Millennial parents are looking to outfit their kids in the clothes and TV and film characters they loved (or coveted) when they were kids.
The result? There’s a new generation of kiddos hitting the playground looking incredibly cool. Take Amari Case, a SoCal toddler who spent a Sunday afternoon this spring ambling around a vintage market in a West Hollywood warehouse clad in baggy jeans and a ’90s-era tee emblazoned with the “Dragon Ball Z” character Son Goku.
When she wasn’t scribbling on a Lorax coloring sheet, she’d been cruising around the market with her dad, Aaron Munoz Case, snapping up new pieces destined to make her the flyest kid at the preschool playground.
Neil Wright, from left, Kristine Nite Scalzo and Brandon Rosenblatt, co-founders of Elemeno Kids Vintage Market.
Showing off Amari’s new vintage satin L.A. Raiders jacket and tiny teal Grant Hill Detroit Pistons jersey, Munoz Case, who was also impeccably dressed, noted that while Amari went through a phase at about 18 months where she wanted to dress herself, eventually she gave up and went back to letting her dripped-out dad dictate her wardrobe.
Munoz Case found Amari’s first vintage piece at the Rose Bowl Flea Market and got the bug, going back every month to pick up something to add to his little’s wardrobe.
Trendspotters and researchers say Munoz Case isn’t alone in his quest. The market for kids’ vintage clothing has heated up precipitously over the last few years, perhaps hitting a boiling point in January when an Eeyore romper from the ’90s sold for over $3,000 on EBay. (It was new with tags, but one without tags still went for almost a grand about a month later.)
The thirst for tiny throwbacks is so popular that first-ever, all-kids market Elemeno — named after the “L-M-N-O” bit of “The Alphabet Song” and where Amari was toddling and shopping — drew 17 vendors and over 2,000 attendees over a single weekend in March. (There are plans for another Elemeno Kids Vintage Market pop-up later this year in New York, as well as plans to bring the event back to L.A. sometime next year.)
1. Cameron Scalzo, wearing a vintage McDonald’s T-shirt from the ‘90s, and mom Kristine Nite Scalzo. 2. Cameron Scalzo rocks an Avirex jacket from the ‘90s.
Eye Speak Vintage’s Kristine Nite Scalzo, who co-organized the event and is opening an all-kids vintage store in Pasadena this month, says she fell under the kids vintage spell in 2020 when she was pregnant with her son. She’d always been a vintage shopper for herself, so she knew she wanted to pass the passion down to the next generation. She started filling up her son’s closet, and soon enough, she found herself selling her other finds out of a bodega in her garage.
She has a by-appointment space in Pasadena now, where she draws everyone from Rihanna’s stylist to out-of-town moms who make a point to stop by on their way to Disneyland. “The community around kids vintage has really skyrocketed on Instagram over the past six years,” Scalzo says. “We want to know who we’re buying from. We want to know that we’re doing good with buying secondhand. And it’s a hobby for people that can turn into a possible business on the side. Because knowing there’s a big group that’s interested in vintage kids clothes, you can always pass an item [your kid outgrows] to someone else or resell it.”
Scalzo says some parents are out digging through bins at the Goodwill Outlet looking for the perfect piece, while others are content to pay up for, say, a ’90s Simpsons T-shirt or a mini-size Harley-Davidson jacket. Scouring the racks at the Elemeno market, most pieces cost $15 to $40, though there were special pieces pulled to the side in some booths with price tags that could make a parent’s eyes pop. (Think $275 for a set of well-worn Spider-Man overalls from the ’00s or $150 for a pair of Cross Colours denim shorts from the ’90s.)
In kids and adult vintage alike, mint condition is highly valued. No matter the era in which they were raised, kids tend to be messy. They get strawberry juice on their shirts or scuff up the knees on their Bugle Boy jeans. Vintage kids clothes that look pristine are more expensive, and while plain kids clothes do sell, items with characters on them or cool prints tend to draw more attention and dollars.
Brandon Rosenblatt, another of the Elemeno organizers, says he’s had his eye on a specific kids “Back to the Future” shirt for some time, but notes that it typically sells for about $1,000. He’s partial to McKids clothes for his daughter, from McDonald’s short-lived kids clothing brand, noting that he’s even snagged her a vintage official McDonald’s-themed aloha shirt from Hawaii, something he says he’s never seen anywhere else.
1. Siblings Amora and Milo Castilo wear vintage cowboy hats, jackets and chaps. 2. Thalia Castilo and her kids Amora and Milo.
Other collectors, he says, might be a little less obscure, leaning into mainstream characters such as Strawberry Shortcake or from ’80s and ’90s properties including “The Land Before Time” and “Rugrats.”
“A lot of millennials are having kids — like everyone who’s in their 30s and 40s — and they all want to put their kids in the same IP they grew up in,” Rosenblatt says.
“It’s the thrill of the hunt that gets everyone so excited,” Scalzo says. “Once you find that perfect nostalgic piece, you’re like ‘Holy s—,’ and you just want to chase that feeling again and again.”
Mia De La Rosa, a reseller who was at the Elemeno market, says that like Scalzo, she started buying kids vintage clothes when she was pregnant with her daughter, Liv, who’s 6 now, very into everything on PBS Kids and has a closet full of thrifted vintage garb covered in characters such as D.W., the annoying little sister from the ’90s show “Arthur.”
Everything Liv wears is “completely her style,” De La Rosa says. “She dresses herself every day and she gets compliments on what she’s wearing at school all the time.”
Other vintage-wearing kids — and in particular younger ones — might simply be sporting what their parents like or might just like the look of the shirt even if they don’t know what it’s advertising. (An 8-year-old boy at the Elemeno market, for instance, chose to wear a pristine T-shirt highlighting the ’90s Jim Carrey movie “The Mask” because it featured his favorite color: green.)
Derrick Broaster, a vintage enthusiast turned full-time reseller, says that while he chooses to put himself in clothes from the ’60s and ’70s, he outfits his two sons in clothes from the 2000s. (“How Bow Wow used to dress when he was a kid,” he says.)
Although his younger son tends to rebel against Broaster’s vintage picks, opting for whatever Spider-Man shoes happen to be in his eyeline, his older son has leaned in, letting his dad advise him on what vintage pieces could work and what would be the most stylish.
1. Julian, left, and Javier Gutierrez show off their vintage clothing. Javier says his mom always tells him to keep his vintage outfits clean. 2. Mom Priscilla Guzman, clockwise, Dad Javier Gutierrez and sons Julian and Javier Gutierrez enjoy the vibe of vintage clothing. Guzman says she’s been buying and selling kids’ vintage since her oldest son was born eight years ago.
Rosenblatt says a good portion of what vintage finds he sees in the market now has returned to the U.S. from places in Central America and South America or Asia where those pieces were likely sent decades ago after they were donated or given away.
“There’s a real underbelly of this vintage game with rag houses getting access to bulk product overseas and letting people sort through it,” he says. “There are companies now that rip through 20, 30 or 40,000 pieces of vintage clothing a week. It’s a really interesting ecosystem.”
For many kids vintage sellers, finding their stock is just as fun and interesting as getting it back into consumers’ hands. “Anywhere we can find clothes, we’re there,” says Matthew Carlos, owner of Long Gone Youth. He started selling vintage clothes 11 years ago, when he was 15, switched to kids vintage at 20 and has spent the last six years scouring flea markets, websites and swap meets.
“The kids market is definitely growing,” he says, “but I still feel like we haven’t even gotten close to where we can go. It’s just getting popular now, but the more events [like Elemeno] we can do, the more it’ll go mainstream.” Even now, some major brands like Gap and OshKosh B’gosh have recognized the interest in some of their styles from the ’80s and ’90s, moving to re-release the looks in limited runs.
Jackie and Frank Oropeza with daughter Rumi Mae shop at Elemeno Kids Vintage Market.
Kids resale is also leaning into streetwear culture. Rosenblatt, who worked in the streetwear industry, says that he’s noticed that a good portion of those interested in kids vintage — particularly, male shoppers — tend to be fans of streetwear brands like Supreme, Fear of God Essentials and Bape. At Elemeno, for instance, a good portion of the parents we saw pushing strollers were well-dressed dads seemingly on solo missions, something you don’t always see at kid-centric events.
“I just want my son to feel like I did as a kid,” said Justin Nguyen, while watching his toddler, Jayden, play with bubbles. “I want him to be happy, carefree and joyful, and I want to be able to spend time with him. My mom and dad were always working, even on the weekends. Now that I’m a dad, taking my son out on weekends to do stuff like this just seems like a blessing.”
Lifestyle
‘Hellions’ author Julia Elliott wins $150K fiction prize
Author Julia Elliott won for her short story collection Hellions.
Forrest Clonts/Tin House
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Forrest Clonts/Tin House
Writer Julia Elliott has won this year’s Carol Shields Prize for Fiction for her short story collection Hellions. The award honors work by women and nonbinary authors in the U.S. and Canada.
Elliott, who also authored the novel The New and Improved Romie Futch and the short story collection The Wilds, is known for blending elements of Southern gothic horror, surrealism and fairy tale. Hellions, published in 2025, includes stories set against backdrops like a plague-stricken medieval convent, a feminist art colony, and small Southern towns.
“This eerie, eclectic, genre-leaping collection takes no half-measures; every sentence of Hellions crackles or crawls,” wrote the prize jury in a statement. “Here, human folly moves against a backdrop of horror and magic … But for all its wildness, there is tremendous control.”
The prize, named after a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist, awards $150,000 to one winner each year. Novels, short story collections, and graphic novels by women and nonbinary authors are eligible.
This year’s finalists included Quiara Alegría Hudes (The White Hot), Lee Lai (Cannon), Megha Majumdar (A Guardian and a Thief), and Sonya Walger (Lion). They will each receive $12,500.
The Carol Shields Prize went to writer Canisia Lubrin in 2025.
You can listen to actor Donna Lynne Champlin read Elliott’s story “Hellion” on the Death, Sex & Money podcast here.
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