I remember once trying to explain to a colleague how a casino was a place full of interesting stories and people. She just said that sounded weird.

I grew up playing cards with my family and remember playing my first hand as a really young child. I remember losing and hating it. But I also remember the security I felt around a table decorated with cards because, usually, all of my extended family was there, too. The truth: this is our front porch. This is our campfire. This is our fishing line and pond.

And this is us rocking back and forth.

Above, a tired mama bear keeps asking why I’m disrupting the game by floating around the room and taking pictures of everyone.

Me: “Wait, what did we do last year?”

Anna: Bemused.

Me: “I think we were already in Mexico City, right?”

Anna: Scanning memory. Face full of astonishment. “We got married, dude!!!!”

Me: AHHHH!

That’s right. See, we celebrate February 20, 2011 as our anniversary because that’s the day when everyone showed up in Cuernavaca, saw us recite our vows and kiss, danced and drank tequila until 3am, and woke up the next morning to see us say adios and fly off to Tulum. But before that, we had to legally tie the knot in the States or else weird things like blood being drawn and stuff would have to happen. We were leaving to Mexico and I was commuting back-and-forth from LA to Oakland for a new job, and Valentine’s Day just happened to be the free day we had before the greatest pachanga in Cuernavaca’s history.

Growing up, my family cared about very little when it came to vacationing. The only two things that ever mattered: hitting the road in a car (we never flew) and breakfast at a diner somewhere, in some new place, with lots of stories and laughs.

My dad once told us all to get in the car on the morning of July 4, 1992. It was around 5am and he told us we’d be hitting the road in the next hour. I was around 11 and I prepared as best as I could for a kid whose only plans that day were to watch Saved By The Bell and maybe eat hot dogs. I showered, brushed my teeth, put on my favorite striped t-shirt (1993, anyone?), shorts, and suede Nikes, and baseball hat from whatever little league team I was on that year.

I didn’t grab a bag. I didn’t pack an extra set of clothes.

We were probably just going for a day excursion to Camarillo, or maybe Ontario to the outlets, or maybe even to the far reaches of Barstow to simply get away. But maybe not. It was summer and the only car we had was my sister’s Toyota Tercel.

If you’re not familiar with an early 90′s Tercel, then I’ll enlighten you. It was an egg with wheels. That’s it. My sister’s was manual transmission, manual windows, manual door locks, and zero air conditioning. The glaring standard of that vehicle made it very clear that we weren’t going to travel anywhere near a place that would turn us into saladitos.

Boy, was I wrong. My dad ended up driving us to Palm Springs in the middle of that hot summer day. We reached the city drenched in sweat. Outdoor misters were bombarded with tourists like us who somehow found themselves in the grips of nature’s oven. My family walked into the nearest McDonald’s and I asked my dad for a burger and a coke. I don’t remember much else from Palm Springs except spilling ketchup all over that favorite shirt. After, what I assume was a few hours, we jumped into the car (an oven at this point) and sped off into the sunset.

By the time I woke up, we weren’t driving up to our driveway in Mission Hills. The bright lights I was seeing weren’t the blinding spotlights of the dealership down the street from our house. I looked over my shoulder and saw fireworks in the distance. I remember seeing a sign that said 11:30pm and “100.” I had no idea what it meant. I remember hearing my parents trying to decide where to park. As I perked up, I realized the lights, the fireworks, the towering buildings could only mean one thing: Vegas. But, it wasn’t. It was something more barren, strikingly odd, and with water.

My dad had woken us up that morning in Los Angeles with a plan to take us to Laughlin, Nevada. He didn’t tell us to pack anything because he just wanted to wing it, get away, have an adventure. My dad is the king of surprise road trip, and this was his masterpiece.

That trip was one of the most uncomfortable rides I had ever experienced. Think about it: we traveled through the California and Nevada desert in the middle of summer, I was 11, and I was in a 2-door car with four people and no A/C.

But the trip is unforgettable; it’s one of the most delightful memories I have with my family.

We spent that Fourth of July walking around Laughlin. I pressed my dad every few minutes to buy me fireworks. He would smile and politely say, “Nope.” That night, I snuck out the exit on my own to watch the fireworks over the Colorado River. Red, white and blue sprinkled the night sky like confetti, and sprinkled my imagination for adventure.

I ended up driving my family out to Sonoma. My mom and dad had never been to a vineyard. They don’t even drink. But they laughed, told stories, and even tasted a little bubbly at Gloria Ferrer’s vineyard. The glorious landscape of Sonoma County is a far cry from the deserts of Nevada, but, for me, its roots are totally there.

Everyone laughed when I asked for them to stop squinted while staring at the sun.

Los Angeles based artist David Choe has been making headlines for a seemingly trivial event that occurred in 2005. That year, Facebook (known as TheFacebook back then) invited Choe to its offices for a job. It was simple: put up a few masterpieces (and he did) and get paid. At the time, Facebook president Sean Parker — most notoriously known because of Napster and famously portrayed by Justin Timberlake in The Social Network – left it up to Choe to either take cash money then and there, or go home with company stock. Choe took the stock and went on his way.

Now those shares could potentially be worth $200 million (inflated much?) — the number every media outlet wants to hype, and is potentially more exaggeration than anything. But, nonetheless, he’s certain to become a multimillionaire once FB goes public.

The real story is the backdrop of America right now. Income inequality. Unemployment. Access to education. 46.2 million Americans living in poverty. There’s no doubt that David Choe has earned every penny from that stock because, frankly, he made a ridiculously brilliant business decision when I know most of us, including myself, would have taken a check, probably paid off student loans, put a down payment on a house in San Fernando, Ca and purchased a 2005 Toyota Tacoma (best truck of 2005!).

I’ve only been in San Francisco for a little under a year but have already been struck by the parlance of the young entrepreneurs in this town. It’s like there’s a secret password I’ve yet to crack in northern california that, if found, will lead me to a secret hub where investors will put me in one of those hurricane chambers full of $100 bills and say “go!” until I grab 10,000 of them. Basically, it’s like people are making it rain up in here! And it’s not a bad thing. Entrepreneurs are the spirit of this nation. But I can understand if some people might feel the slightest tinge of envy. After 2008, who can blame them?

The photo above was taken from an interview today to be aired Thursday between Barbara Walters and Choe. Dude looks super happy. But we would be, too. So, you know, who can blame him?

Upper Playground, the San Francisco based street art brand, has some exclusive photos.

photo via BW facebook

I’m always one to boast about my unwavering immune system; its defense capacity is that of a platoon of millions of white blood cells carrying the legacy of my generations before me. That generation lived to be 99, fit, healthy, conquering even the most potent physical demons a human can imagine. And yet, I’m sure a simple Saturday night basketball game under a moonlit sky filled with crisp Northern California air is what destined me for a full day of blogging and pajama wearing.

I hate whatever is at war with me.

On Saturday mornings dog walkers, the hungover, the tourists, and the neighboring saunterers converge to overlook the broad landscape (seen here in this mini landscape video I took) unveiled by the hilltops above the park. It’s a sight with charm that hardly wanes.

In the words of Clay Davis: Sheeeeeee-iiiiittt. By the looks of it, censorship lost.

Above, MIA greets millions of homes with the universal symbol for “let’s party” during the halftime performance at the Super Bowl. Here’s the hi-res shot.

Update: Sasha Frere-Jones Weighs In

The stage is, it turns out, an enormous screen pointing up. A late period hit, “Music,” begins. Happy to hear this in any setting, and the presentation is great. Breakdancers are leaping about on lit-up bleachers. This is incoherent but entirely fun. (“Music” means “dancing” in Madonna’s dictionary, so who’s counting.) Now here is (maybe?) Will Ferrell neutering himself by yo-yoing, crotch first, on a rubber band. Madonna, I appreciate your commitment to this alleged “wow factor.” But. Oh. LMFAO appear as d.j.s and sing the hook from “Party Rock,” which needs to end very quickly or I am going to stop loving humans. It’s like Jar Jar Binks showing up in a Ciara video.

“You’re the reason why I’ll move to the city/Or why I’ll need to leave…” With those words, Sharon Van Etten has captured the hearts of myriad urban dwellers. As a friend noted, “she sounds like a better Cat Power.” And although I won’t venture into that arena, I will say that SVE’s harmonies, seemingly hanging off a cliff ready to take flight at every note, make me feel like she’s captured something fundamentally raw in her being.

The Independent in San Francisco and picked up tickets relatively easy. But mark my words: that will not last long. Below, the track “We Are Fine” with guest vocalist Zack Condon from Beirut.

The morning before I drove her to the airport The Guardian reported that five bombings in the northern city of Kano had occurred the previous night and killed over 170 people. National alerts proclaimed the obvious: don’t fucking go to Nigeria.

That was two weeks ago and my gal is finally coming home. She said it was the toughest country she’d ever been to, and that’s saying something considering she’s traveled to over 30 countries in the world. Next up: Myanmar. I might have to tag along.

I still remember him running around his grandma’s house, kicking back his Capri Sun and watching Nickelodeon for hours. I’d come home from school and there he was at the table in the middle of the afternoon, watching television and waiting for another bowl of cereal. He’d fill it to the brim with sugary clumps of goodness and pour half a carton of milk in. It would all be gone in a flash.

I’d be severely neglectful when saying San Francisco truly feels like home. There is no doubt in mind that years could accumulate in this new city. But everyone needs something to make them feel whole. For me, it’s very simple. I just need a few De La Cruz’s laughing, joking, and enjoying time together to make it all feel golden. And the latest permanent addition might have just set me up for some serious residency, something I don’t think I’ve done since my freshman year of college.