Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: I was about to move. But she had a loveliness I’d never encountered in L.A.
Two weeks after selling all my furniture and another two weeks before quitting my job, I made eyes with a girl at a queer event in West Hollywood. She had long, wavy brown hair with an intense stare to match. We didn’t speak until hours later. It was past midnight.
She had just moved from New York, she said. I didn’t tell her, but I was moving there at the end of the summer. Her stare was no longer intense now as we talked. It was soft, welcoming, curious. But I knew we would be missing each other.
I said it was nice to meet her and promptly left the bar.
When we matched on Tinder days later, it felt almost inevitable.
“Hi!” she wrote. “Did we meet briefly at Hot Flash on Saturday or was this a dream / do you have a twin?”
I looked closely at how she appeared in the light. In her first picture, she stood in a one-piece on a boulder, smiling, a waterfall pummeling behind her. In another, she was on a beach in black workout pants, hair settling in waves at her chest. So much of attraction exists in the realm of the ineffable, but if I had to articulate what drew me to her, the answer might be the image of her smile. She embodied a loveliness, a presence, I was longing for; something I hadn’t found in L.A. — or had lost.
“Not sure if this is a line lol but I’m going to go with yes,” I wrote back. “No twin unfortunately.” We made a plan to find each other not long after during Pride. We stood off to the side at Roosterfish, the same bar where we met. She wore a white frilly shirt and distressed black jorts and loafers. I didn’t hurry off this time.
We continued our conversation over juice the next day, around the corner from the Pride parade at the Butcher’s Daughter. She told me almost offhand what brought her to L.A.: She identified more with the lifestyle here — it was more laid-back, outdoorsy, spacious. And she had ended a long-term relationship in New York.
This didn’t faze me. I knew many people who traversed the L.A.-New York pipeline in both directions. A romantic rupture, or dissatisfaction, wasn’t an uncommon revelation. If I were to look closely at my own reasoning for wanting to leave L.A., I was sure I would discover one too.
By then I was living back at my parents’ house, all my books in storage and anticipating my summer of isolation in the Valley. I told her I was leaving my job days later and then immediately heading to Vermont for a writing residency. And then my summer was, but for my writing and job hunt, free and open. I made no mention of my anticipated move to New York. I wasn’t trying to be deceptive; I think I was trying to be protective. Once you say the thing, you will always have said it. I wasn’t sure what it was I wanted anymore.
“You are lovely,” she texted me that night.
The next weeks passed quickly. I wrote on the East Coast, though I didn’t feel the usual desire to stick around, and I wasn’t sure why. When I returned to L.A., I texted her.
We had a picnic at Barnsdall Art Park days after the Fourth of July. An L.A. native, I had somehow never been to the famed East Hollywood park with its clear-day view of Griffith Observatory. She brought paints, and while I hadn’t painted for over a decade at least, I managed to paint on a note card the fruit she’d laid out: two raspberries and three blueberries. We kissed at the end of the date, but my sunglasses bumped her face and my hair came between our mouths. I moved both out of the way.
“This feels like a rom-com,” she said. I laughed. It was true.
She left the next day for Hawaii, where she had to be for work through August. She sent me pictures of banyan trees, shared her plans to read my favorite book on the beach in the early mornings, told me she was a hopeless romantic: that she believed both in the lightning of connection and the build, not getting broken by it.
I would read her texts and reply from Barnsdall, with a book recommendation of hers in tow, the note card of painted berries as its bookmark, or from the beach. I’ve never been much of a beach person, but I spent a lot of time on the sand that summer, from Santa Barbara and Malibu to Oceanside. I felt a closeness with her there, like I could sense her too looking out beyond the horizon.
Meanwhile, I received an offer for a job that, contrary to my intentions, would be in the L.A. office. If the offer had arrived two months earlier, I wouldn’t have even considered it. Now, I wasn’t sure what to do. I was still interviewing for positions in New York, but I knew I wanted to be around when she returned. I accepted the offer. I would start after Labor Day. I would remain in L.A.
I could only admit the real reason to a select few.
In early August, back in town for a mere 48 hours, she sent me a list of date ideas: a comedy show, a concert at the Hollywood Bowl, cooking dinner at her place. In the end, we opted for a cold plunge and sauna. I’m highly sensitive to (and avoidant of) extreme temperature. The fact I joined her for this activity surprised even me.
“You make me brave,” I told her. She blushed. I meant it.
My entire body shuddered from the cold water, and she helped me out after only 30 seconds. Meanwhile, she stayed submerged for three minutes at a time. Our kiss was longer that day, natural and intuitive. I’d held her face between my hands.
The next time I saw her was the day before Labor Day. She was back from Hawaii for good now. We went to a rooftop screening of “Before Sunrise” at the Montalbán Theatre in Hollywood. She got us a refill of popcorn. She put on lip gloss midway, popped a breath mint, offered me one too. She rested her hand in the space between us. At one point, leaning forward, she turned back to give me a look. I thought I knew what that look meant, but I was wrong.
“I think I may not be ready to let someone in yet romantically,” she texted the next day.
Friendship felt disingenuous. She said she understood.
And the day after that, as planned, I started my job. Her, my reason for doing so, now lost to me — until she wasn’t. I ran into her later that fall in Venice. She was stopped at a red light with the top down. I was walking back from the beach.
I called her name from the sidewalk. She didn’t hear me. I called twice more. She looked up.
“I can’t help but feel like you’re meant to be in my life in some way,” she texted the next morning.
And so we played Rummikub at a restaurant in Laurel Canyon. We sent voice notes as we sat in traffic. We exchanged music, shared a playlist. She drove in a rainstorm to meet me for a Shabbat dinner.
But she still wasn’t able to open her heart, she said, and she couldn’t ask me to wait.
I can’t imagine a world where this is the end. This imagining stems less from a premonition of the future than a feeling of how deeply she has shaped my present. Meeting her reconnected me to something essential within myself and this city I call home. How, even with her gone, I’ve stayed.
The author is a writer from Los Angeles.
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.
Editor’s note: Have a dating story to tell about starting fresh? Share it at L.A. Affairs Live, our new competition show featuring real dating stories from people living in the Greater Los Angeles area. Find audition details 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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