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Some people continued clandestine gatherings all along, as style pages whispered, while others were dragged on social media for doing so openly. Now, we’re meant to be making up for lost time, and June being our prescribed month for social and political unity, it’s supposed to mean something. The pandemic has wreaked disproportionate havoc on LGBTQ+ people, who have been more likely to face bad health outcomes, economic hardship, and mental health strain as a result of Covid-19 and the preventive measures that forced us apart.
It’s Pride month after a devastating year of isolation and loss. By the time I burst into the early morning air to bike the 20 blocks home, I was relieved to be alone again - and aware that I had already taken a night out for granted. I fumbled conversations with strangers, felt the cold trickle of a drink spilled down my back, and waited my turn to pee. I kissed a guy I had kissed many times before, and another I had met for just 10 minutes, unimaginable only weeks prior.
After the third drink, I was wedged tight into a steamy stampede of bodies, dislodging myself into a familiar blur. This time last year, I’d been cutting my hair over the bathroom sink I’d forgotten the unmoored feeling of being assessed, or worse, overlooked. I watched the mostly white men flowing in both directions and wondered if they’d noticed me, my dense black beard and almond skin, and what they saw. Two drinks in and my back was still glued to the wall. My head seemed to float above me like a helium balloon I imagined a smiley face scrawled across it in magic marker. But being back inside one of my frequent gay haunts also felt somehow sour-sweet, like the Cuervo and soda I gripped too tight. Partly, I was still getting used to breathing indoor air, to being around people at all. Alagot.Unmasked and hyper-aware of the midnight crowd swelling around me, I felt my heart suddenly beating too fast. I, for one, am thirsting after these photos by Calvin B. That’s because, during the week, the Cactus Ranch is a wholesale nursery business, closed to the public, but on weekends it’s open to anyone from 11 a.m. Reporter Jeanette Marantos said the nursery "feels secret and special because as nurseries go, it’s relatively unknown, and thus uncrowded. The Los Angeles Times got an inside look at the San Fernando Valley hot spot, just northwest of downtown Los Angeles. No ifs, ands or buts about it: California Nursery Specialties Cactus Ranch is a super cool place. Ventura County Star reporter Megan Diskin details how investigators used genetic genealogy to identify Soosay.
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During the perpetrator's 2018 trial in Ventura County, jurors and attorneys referred to her based on where her body was found on July 15, 1980: Kern County Jane Doe. Thanks to genetic genealogists' use of historical records, social media and DNA, the public can now call Kern County Jane Doe by her true name: Shirley Ann Soosay.įor 40 years, Soosay was an unidentified woman known to the public only as a victim of a brutal rape and murder. The state has seen more people leave than move in from other states for much of the last three decades." For 40 years, this victim of rape and murder had no name genetic genealogy gave it back Soumya Karlamangla and Thomas Curwen report that "a major force in California’s declining population has been the exodus to other states. Nearly 200,000 people left the Golden State last year, "marking the first population decline ever recorded in the state and underscoring larger trends that recently led to the loss of a Congressional seat," according to the Los Angeles Times. Here's some more news you may want to know ahead of the weekend: California's population falls for first time ever Have a friend who wants California news delivered to their inbox? Let them know they can sign up via this link. “It's been ground zero for them for forever.” Local gay men treat this as their living room,” said David Farnsworth, the co-owner and general manager of nearby Streetbar. Some started GoFundMe pages for Arenas bars. Customers sat in outdoor patios in 120-degree heat when they could have stayed home. Giesecke partially credits his business’ survival to the tight-knit community that came together and “formed ranks” around the historic street.