LAPD Officers Shot and Killed a Man on Skid Row in Broad Daylight Sunday
Around 11:30 AM Sunday, LAPD officers responded to several simultaneous calls about robbery and battery just outside one of the largest rescue missions in LA’s skid row, as local radio outlet KPCC reported. One witness told the LA Times that when the officers arrived, they found two men fighting inside a tent. Officers then allegedly Tasered the man who was later shot, dragged him outside the tent, and attempted to restrain him.
The actress Audrey Hepburn photographed in the backstage of the 58th Annual Academy Awards (held at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion) in Los Angeles, California (USA), on March 24, 1986.
Audrey was wearing:
Evening gown: Givenchy (Indian-inspired: one shoulder, of silk jersey in a beautiful shade of pink, embroidery with small sequins, bugle beads, crystals and silk threads, of his haute couture collection for the Spring/Summer of 1986).
Earrings: Givenchy (of his haute couture collection for the Spring/Summer of 1986).
I want to write a love letter to the city of Los Angeles.
After almost six months to the day, I am back. What started as a spontaneous decision to visit the hub of Asian America two years ago has
turned into an annual visit that feels a little more like a homecoming every
I am sleeping in the living room of a man I met on Twitter.
I have just eaten three tacos from a truck off of Wilshire and Vermont after a
party I was invited to by a Youtube celebrity. Earlier that evening, I spoke on
a panel at USC organized by students I connected with on Tumblr. Balancing the
plate of tacos on one hand, I use my other to quickly search and add the other
panelists on Facebook and Instagram.
This is my life, one gigabyte of data at a time.
People say I’m kind of Internet famous, which always makes
me laugh because I have no idea what that means. For a person who lives and
works on the Internet, things can get a little weird. I talk and write about
the importance of community, yet often feel like I lack one of my own. In the
frozen wasteland of upstate New York, I am hours away from anyone who has a
vested interest in building Asian America.
I am hungry.
I am hungry for conversations about responsible
representation, about Confucian naming traditions in China, about the spectrum
of sexuality. I am hungry for mentors, friends, and chosen family. It is the
same hunger that left pangs of pain throughout my adolescence in Arizona.
Sometimes the hunger turned into loneliness. It’s the reason I latched onto the
Internet. I wanted to know how the story ended, how people combined their Asian
and American sides, how they dealt with this unfair juggling act.
To some degree, being online 24/7 satisfies my craving. But
it’s just not the same as sharing a meal with someone, reading their facial
cues, and giving them a hug. Some days I feel more cyborg than human.
Sometimes it feels like I’m never doing enough. The likes,
retweets, follows – they all blur together until it means nothing. I start
questioning whether or not online organizing is “real” organizing. Fascinasians
sits on Tumblr, collecting virtual dust. Since I started working with 18
Million Rising I’ve neglected the blog that was my stepping-stone. Maybe some
things aren’t meant to last forever; maybe they’re just a means to an end. And
in a way I wonder if that’s what LA will be someday.
LA is everything I never knew I wanted. She fills me up with
music (a student strumming a guitar and singing about allyship). Theater (Paul
Dateh and Jane Lui reading for a play about video games). Poetry (every Tuesday
Night Café). Art (the guy covered in charcoal, sketching portraits of people
while Far East Movement performs a few hundred feet away). Food. Oh god, the
Los Angeles is a place that always manages to break me. She shatters
whatever ideas I have about myself, and then makes a mosaic or something out of
the pieces. The first time I visited, I was in the midst of one of the most
challenging times of my life. My professional and personal lives were
crumbling, and LA caught me with her open mic nights, her cornbread, and her
eagerness to love.
New York doesn’t love you like LA does. New York makes you
work for it and then spits on you once you think you get on her good side. You
hide the way you feel about New York under complaints and expletives.
My parents approve of Los Angeles. They know I’m consciously
working to improve my Chinese. I call them and tell them about the food I ate:
the tomato and egg the stewed beef, the tealeaf eggs. She’s the perfect way for
me to preserve my culture.
Everyone asks me when I’m moving here. They tap their wrists
and smile, telling me it’s only a matter of time until I get sick of the long,
depressing winters of New York and join them. Whenever I’m at an event or show,
a certain Yonsei gives me a toothy grin and says “this could be every night if
you move here”.
The truth is: I’m scared to.
If I move here, am I taking the easy way out by joining an
already established community? Will the magic fade away? Will my peaceful walks
down 7th street turn into angry running to catch a bus or pay a
meter? Will I get caught up in the undercurrents of politics and personal
feuds? Will LA stop loving me the way I love her? Inevitably.
LA is the one place in the world where I can park at a gas
station under a giant mural of Hyun-jin Ryu, smell the soup dumpling someone is
eating nearby, and overhear two aunties chatting in Tagalog behind me. This is
Asian America. This is the Promised Land, and I’m not sure if I’m worthy yet. I
want to be good enough for her.
Los Angeles has this magical quality about her. She’s a
Lazarus Pit. She heals parts of me I didn’t know were broken. She buzzes with
community, glows with love, and shines with hope. I am hopelessly infatuated.