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L.A. Affairs: My roommate had sun-kissed skin and a movie-star smile. Was he my Romeo?

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L.A. Affairs: My roommate had sun-kissed skin and a movie-star smile. Was he my Romeo?

I grew up in Los Angeles a hopeless romantic with my head permanently tilted toward the sky and a copy of “Romeo and Juliet” worn from rereading. I devoured that book far too young and believed in it far too earnestly. Soulmates weren’t just an idea — they were a promise. I believed in love that defied reason and timing, in glances across rooms that changed the course of your life, in poetry etched into every heartbeat.

But by 21, the fairy tale had started to crack. A traumatic experience with a man I had trusted shattered my sense of safety and desire. For three years, I withdrew from dating entirely. I told people I was “focusing on myself,” which was true in part, but it was also a shield. I was afraid — afraid of being seen, of being wanted, of wanting back. I felt like a locked door that I didn’t even remember how to open.

Still, no matter how deeply I buried it, I couldn’t stop craving the very thing I feared most: love. The real kind. The sweeping, soul-consuming kind I had always dreamed of. The kind that felt like coming home.

Then I moved into an actors’ house in Los Feliz — a beautiful kind of chaos only L.A. could produce. Four roommates, each chasing a different dream, all of us messy, creative and trying to make something of ourselves. One of them had just arrived from Australia. I still remember the first time I saw him — tall, sun-kissed skin, dark golden curls, movie-star smile and a voice that made everything sound like a love song. Even “pass the almond milk” felt flirtatious coming from him.

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He had that magnetic energy — the kind that makes you turn your head in a crowded room without even knowing why. He was already well-known back home, but here he was starting from scratch. That vulnerability, mixed with his charm, made him impossible not to notice. I didn’t just notice. I was drawn in like a tide to the moon.

We started spending time together, at first just casually, but then constantly. Hikes through Griffith Park, conversations that started over coffee and lasted until 2 a.m. in the kitchen. Walks through Silver Lake where our hands brushed just slightly too long. He listened intently. He remembered little details I’d said in passing. He looked at me like I was a story he wanted to read slowly.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I started to feel it — those soft, fluttering butterflies that made it hard to breathe around him. The kind of feeling I thought I’d lost forever. I’d catch myself staring at him, not even trying to hide it. My heart would do this little skip when he laughed at my jokes or looked at me too long. I started to wonder: Is this it? Could he be the one?

I couldn’t even see other guys anymore. He had warped my radar. Every song reminded me of him. My mind raced ahead, imagining a future that didn’t even exist yet — a montage of quiet mornings, long walks, maybe even moving back to Australia with him. It was completely unhinged and yet felt undeniably real.

One night, we were sitting on the couch after everyone else had gone to bed. A movie played softly in the background, something neither of us were really watching. There was a long silence — not awkward, just full — and then he turned to me, his eyes searching mine.

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“I really like you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

I felt my heart seize up. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.

He leaned in slowly, giving me time to meet him halfway.

But I couldn’t. I froze.

Just before our lips touched, I gently pulled back and looked away.

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“Sorry,” I said, barely audible.

He paused for a second, then gave me the softest smile. “It’s OK,” he said without missing a beat. “No pressure, all right? Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.”

And just like that, we moved on. No awkwardness. No pressure. He handled it with such grace that, if anything, I liked him more. It felt like confirmation that he really saw me — not just as someone to conquer, but someone worth being patient with.

But a few days later, the shine started to fade.

We were sitting on the back steps one afternoon when he mentioned, almost in passing, “There’s something I should probably tell you. I have a girlfriend.”

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I blinked. “Wait … what?”

“She lives in Germany,” he said, voice quiet. “It’s been four years. We’ve been long-distance for a while. It’s kind of on the rocks, but … we’re still technically together.”

Technically.

I felt the bottom drop out of my chest. My mind scrambled to connect dots, rearranging every sweet moment under this new light.

I tried to process it, but I wasn’t angry — not yet. Just stunned. Numb. I nodded, said something like, “Thanks for telling me,” and excused myself to my room.

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But then the nights started to change.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. But after that conversation, the energy in the house shifted. Almost every night, I’d hear new voices. Laughter. Sometimes flirtatious whispers in the hallway. One night, I passed a girl in the kitchen making toast at 1 a.m. in his hoodie. She smiled politely. I didn’t ask questions.

It became a pattern. A different girl, almost every night. He’d meet them on Raya or Tinder. Beautiful, charismatic women, most of them aspiring actors or models. I never heard him brag about it. He wasn’t showy. But it was unmistakable — he was spiraling into something.

And I couldn’t stop watching.

Part of me was devastated, even though I had no claim to him. I’d been imagining a future. I had started to believe he was my soulmate. But this wasn’t what soulmates did. Soulmates didn’t treat people like rotating doors.

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Eventually, during one of our rare quiet nights alone, I brought it up.

“Hey,” I said gently. “Are you OK?”

He paused, staring at his hands. Then, with surprising openness, he admitted, “I think I have a problem.”

He explained that sex was like a compulsion for him. That he’d been using it to cope with anxiety, loneliness, the chaos of this city. That it made him feel better — for a moment. But never for long. He looked up at me, eyes raw.

“I’m trying to get a handle on it,” he said. “But it’s hard.”

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I sat beside him, silent. Not judging. Just listening.

He wasn’t cruel. Just deeply lost. One of the many people in this city chasing something they couldn’t quite name. He wanted to be loved, just like me. He just didn’t know how to be safe with it.

I was relieved we hadn’t crossed that line. That I’d kept one piece of myself intact. But it also marked something final. The moment I stopped seriously considering dating a man in Los Angeles.

I still love this city. I still take the same walks. Still linger in cafes, hoping for something soft and sincere to cut through the noise. But I don’t fall for fantasies anymore, especially not the kind wrapped in accents and charisma.

The charming, sex-addicted Australian man? He’s still one of my closest friends. We never kissed. We never even talked about it much.

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Experiencing romance is without a doubt one of the finer things in life, but it’s not always the most fulfilling. Soulmates show up in many forms, and sometimes the realest love one will experience is with a dog or a family member or a platonic friend and that’s OK. All love is great love.

The author is an actor and writer living in Los Angeles. She grew up in the city, still believes in love (sometimes) and takes too many long walks through Silver Lake and Los Feliz.

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.

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This historian dug up the hidden history of ‘amateur’ blackface in America

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This historian dug up the hidden history of ‘amateur’ blackface in America

In 2013, historian Rhae Lynn Barnes was researching blackface in America when she encountered a stumbling block at the Library of Congress: Various primary sources on the subject were listed as “missing on shelf.”

Barnes spoke to one of the librarians, and explained that she was writing a history of minstrel shows and white supremacy. Barnes says the librarian admitted that, in 1987, she had personally hidden some of these books because she feared the material would be used by the Ku Klux Klan.

“Once [the librarian] understood the research I was doing … a few hours later, she came up with a cart packed to the brim with all of the material that I had been hoping to see,” Barnes says.

In her new book Darkology: Blackface and the American Way of Entertainment, Barnes traces the origin of minstrel shows, performances in which an actor portrays an exaggerated and racist depiction of Black, often formerly enslaved, people.

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Barnes says minstrel became so popular in the 1800s that the stars began publishing “step-by-step guides” explaining how amateurs could create their own shows. By the end of the century, amateur minstrel performances became one of the most popular forms of entertainment in the U.S. Many groups, including fraternal orders, PTAs, police and firemen’s associations and soldiers on military bases, put on their own shows.

During the Great Depression, Barnes notes that President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration sought to “preserve American heritage” by promoting blackface. As part of the effort, she says, the government distributed lists of “top minstrel plays that they recommended to schools, to local charities, to colleges.” Roosevelt was such a fan of minstrel shows that he co-wrote a script, to be performed by children with polio.

Barnes credits the civil rights era and especially mothers with helping de-popularize blackface in the 1970s, first in schools and then in the larger culture. “They successfully get the shows out of school curriculum piece by piece. And by 1970, most of these publishing houses are going under because of the incredible work of Black and white mothers who worked with them,” she says.

Interview highlights

Stein’s makeup company created multiple shades of blackface for performers in amateur minstrel shows.

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On commercial blackface makeup that replaced shoe polish and burnt cork

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It’s an entire commercial empire. So Stein’s makeup was one of the largest. They were a theatrical makeup company. And you’ll actually find today when you go into Halloween stores that a lot of these blackface makeup companies still exist today for Halloween costume makeup and also for clown makeup. …

Burnt cork was incredibly difficult to get off of your face. You’re essentially taking fire ash and then mixing it with shoe polish or some sort of shiny ingredients, and so it was incredibly hard to get it off. So when Stein and these other cosmetic companies begin to create the tubes … that did come in 29 colors and you could pick which bizarre racial calculus you wanted to represent, they would come off with cold cream or makeup remover and that was one of their selling points — now it’s easy to take off.

On Stephen Foster‘s songs for minstrel shows, like “Oh Susannah!”

What’s interesting about those songs is they are romanticizing the relationship between an enslaved person and their enslaver. And so when we have commentary, even from the president now, who recently said slavery wasn’t so bad, well, slavery was horrific, but if you were raised on a diet of Stephen Foster music, and going to minstrel shows, you can somewhat understand how somebody at the time could easily be led to believe that slavery was a grand old party because that’s what it was supposed to be telling you. It’s pro-slavery propaganda.

On the slogan “Make America Great Again” originating from early 20th-century minstrel shows 

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“Make America Great Again” or “This Is Our Country” or “Take Back Our Country” are all slogans and songs that were very common in minstrel shows. And so a lot of minstrel shows reinterpreted slavery in a fantastical way, that the Civil War ended and that in these minstrel shows there was Black rule and that everything America held dear was desecrated. And so this [blackface] “Zip” character … sometimes he’s named “Rastus” — he has different names that he goes by — runs for office, political office, becomes president, and he’s the first Black president and the first thing he does is he takes away America’s guns. Sound familiar? And so a lot of these terms that you could perhaps say [are] dog whistles in white of supremacy are taken line for line from these minstrel shows.

On not censoring this history

Historians right now are in somewhat of a culture war in that it is our patriotic duty as American citizens and as patriots to help make sure that the American public has access to our history in all of its complexity. And the truth is that you can’t understand the victories and the triumphs without understanding how far Americans had to push. And I think that’s especially true of blackface. When we didn’t adequately understand how long blackface was a mainstay in American culture. Because many historians believe that it had died out by 1900, when in fact it only accelerates and increases up through the 1970s. And so if you just say, “Oh, it just died out. It was no longer in fashion,” then what you’re losing is the incredible, dangerous, and brave work of thousands of Black and white mothers across the United States in the 1950s and the 1960s, of students who stood up during Jim Crow America and said, “This is not OK. We are humans. We deserve dignity. And we want you to understand our history.” …

I think these are the hard conversations Americans actually want to have. And I think America is completely ready for those hard conversations and moving forward.

Anna Bauman and Susan Nyakundi produced and edited this interview for broadcast. Bridget Bentz, Molly Seavy-Nesper and Meghan Sullivan adapted it for the web.

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L.A. Times Concierge: ‘Our anniversary trip to Paris fell through! Help us plan an L.A. escapade that feels special’

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L.A. Times Concierge: ‘Our anniversary trip to Paris fell through! Help us plan an L.A. escapade that feels special’

My husband and I celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary in April! Years ago we planned to go to Paris (as we did on our 25th), but now our 17-year-old dog can’t be left alone with a dog sitter for that long. And look, our cat is 15! Any recommendations for a special dinner (we live in the Pasadena/Highland Park area) and maybe a little escapade where we would only be gone for shorter bursts? Hints: We love theater, movies, the beach, laughing and food that is divine, but not so rich you can’t stand up after. I also can’t eat dairy. — Diane Kelber

Looking for things to do in L.A.? Ask us your questions and our expert guides will share highly specific recommendations.

Here’s what we suggest:

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First and foremost, congratulations on 40 years of marriage! That’s a milestone definitely worth celebrating. Also, I hear you on not wanting to leave your dog for an extended period of time. Although you won’t be able to make it to Paris this time, hopefully we can bring glimpses of the romantic city to you here in L.A. I’ve compiled a list of spots for you to create your own adventure.

If you look closely enough, you can find slices of Europe in L.A. Or as my colleague Christopher Reynolds once put it, places that aim to “feed travel dreams or remind someone of home.” A prime example of this are the many French restaurants in the city where you can indulge in as many macarons, steak frites and beef bourguignon as you’d like. Two standout spots are Camélia and Pasjoli, both featured on the L.A. Times list of 101 Best Restaurants. Located in the downtown Arts District, Camélia merges French and Japanese cuisines. On the menu is uni pasta, hanger steak au poivre and a dry-aged burger with fries, which restaurant critic Bill Addison says doesn’t require any twists because “it’s simply a fantastic burger.”

Restaurant critic Jenn Harris says the Santa Monica-based Pasjoli “straddles the line between destination dining and the kind of neighborhood restaurant everybody wants to have down the street.” The eatery is best known for its tableside pressed duck, which the chef prepares in a theatrical fashion during dinner service. But if you’re not into duck, there are several other popular dishes on the menu, including French onion soup, steak frites, sole meuniere and what Harris calls “the best grilled cheese sandwich in the known universe” (though this might be a better option for your husband).

If you prefer a more laid-back vibe that makes you feel like you’ve been teleported to Saint-Germain-des-Prés in Paris, check out Figaro Bistrot in Los Feliz. As I wrote in a guide about neighborhood, the restaurant embodies the Parisian way of dining: guests linger over wine and good conversation.

Another L.A. spot that is reminiscent of Europe is the the Getty Center in Brentwood. Designed by architect Richard Meier, the sprawling hilltop complex is gleaming with manicured gardens, breathtaking city views and a museum, making it the perfect backdrop for a romantic date. Bring a blanket, your favorite snacks and have a picnic on the lawn near the central garden. The best part is that it’s free to visit (though reservations are required and parking rates vary depending on the time of day). For a more intimate experience, check out the Getty Villa in Malibu, modeled after the Villa dei Papiri in Herculaneum, Italy.

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For a picturesque date that feels like you’ve been plopped onto a movie set, consider the Gondola Getaway in Long Beach. Here, a gondolier takes you on a loop around an enchanting residential Naples Island. Years ago, I went on a date there and I’ve been wanting to go back ever since.

Now for some rapid fire recommendations: Since you’re into theater, my colleague Lisa Boone suggests the Pasadena Playhouse, a Tony Award-winning theater, which is close to home for you. Times outdoors reporter Jaclyn Cosgrove also recommends drinks and dinner on the charming balcony at Checker Hall in Highland Park. Afterward, you can check out a live show next door at the Lodge Room. And because you love laughing, consider checking out Hollywood Improv, which hosts multiple events throughout the week.

Now, I know that these experiences aren’t Paris, but I hope they might help bring you and your husband a bit of what travelers feel when they’re there: excitement, adventure, passion and most importantly love. And when you’re with that special someone, I think you can capture those emotions no matter where you are. Happy anniversary!

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Country Joe McDonald, anti-war singer who electrified Woodstock, dies at 84

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Country Joe McDonald, anti-war singer who electrified Woodstock, dies at 84

Singer Joe McDonald sings during the concert marking the 40th anniversary of the Woodstock music festival on Aug. 15, 2009 in Bethel, New York. McDonald has died at age 84.

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Country Joe McDonald, the singer-songwriter whose Vietnam War protest song became a signature anthem of the 1960s counterculture, has died at 84.

McDonald died on Saturday in Berkeley, Calif., according to a statement released by a publicist. His health had recently declined due to Parkinson’s disease.

Born in 1942, in Washington, D.C., he grew up in El Monte, Calif., outside Los Angeles, according to a biography on his website. As a young man he served in the U.S. Navy before turning to writing and music during the early 1960s, eventually becoming involved in the political and cultural ferment of the Bay Area.

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In 1965 he helped form the band Country Joe and the Fish in Berkeley. The group became part of the emerging San Francisco psychedelic music scene, blending folk traditions with electric rock and pointed political commentary.

The band’s best-known song, “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag,” captured the growing anti-war sentiment of the Vietnam era. With its ragtime-influenced rhythm and sharply satirical lyrics about war and political leadership, the song quickly became associated with protests against the conflict.

McDonald delivered the song to some half a million people at the 1969 Woodstock festival in upstate New York. Performing solo, he led the crowd in a form of call-and-response before launching into the anti-war anthem, turning the performance into one of the defining scenes of the festival.

Country Joe and the Fish released several recordings during the late 1960s and toured widely, becoming closely identified with that era’s West Coast rock and protest movements.

McDonald later continued performing and recording as a solo artist, recording numerous albums across a career that spanned more than half a century. His work drew variously from folk, rock and blues traditions and often reflected his long-standing interest in political and social issues.

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Although he became widely known for his opposition to the Vietnam War, McDonald frequently emphasized respect for those who served in the U.S. military. After his own service in the Navy, he remained engaged with veterans’ issues and occasionally performed at events connected to veterans and their experiences, according to his website biography.

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