Artist and athlete Ernie Barnes painted what he saw, and what he saw was America through a rare lens. Drawing from a childhood in the Jim Crow South and time on our nation’s biggest playing fields, Barnes displayed his own particular cultural vantage on his canvases. Once you encounter his paintings—with their telltale elongated bodies, exaggerated movements, and forms alive with a musicality and quiet depth—his work becomes instantly recognizable.
“The curve of his figures, that visual rhythm—it’s distinct,” says Derrais Carter, a Barnes fan and associate professor of Africana Studies at UMass Boston. “There’s something uniquely American about his work.” Today, Barnes’ legacy echoes through galleries and auction houses around the world, his work fetching millions. But before achieving artistic acclaim, Barnes was a football player trying to make ends meet in San Diego. Our city—and this magazine—played a pivotal role in helping shape him into a man widely regarded as the first American professional athlete to become a professional artist.
Born in Durham, North Carolina in the summer of 1938, Ernest Barnes Jr. grew up on a dirt road in a segregated nation. Gentle-natured and self-described as chubby, Barnes was bullied as a child. But his artistic inclinations were present early, simmering on a back burner while his life—and his body—grew in the direction of pro sports. With more than two dozen scholarship offers following high school, Barnes decided to stay close to home, accepting a full ride to the all-Black North Carolina College at Durham (now North Carolina Central University), where he studied art. The 6-foot-3-inch, 250-pound Barnes was then drafted by the Baltimore Colts in 1959. Barnes later said it was in the trenches of the offensive line that he learned much about human movement.
Courtesy of the Ernie Barnes Estate In his autobiography, Barnes said his time playing for the San Diego Chargers proved to be “a mark of [his] development.”
After a brief stint with the New York Titans, his connection to San Diego began taking shape when he accepted an offer from the Chargers in 1960, one year before the team moved from LA to Balboa Stadium.
“Even when he lived in LA, he loved going down to San Diego,” says Luz Rodriguez, Barnes’ longtime assistant and founder of the Ernie Barnes Legacy Project. “He really enjoyed the weather and the vibe, and whenever he talked about football, he preferred being a member of the Charger team.”
“For me, being a Charger satisfied my dreams about being a professional football player,” Barnes writes in his 1995 autobiography, From Pads to Palette. “It staked a deep claim in my emotional territory. It was a mark of my development.”
Courtesy of Ernie Barnes Estate In the 1960s, Barnes provided a number of illustrations for San Diego Magazine, including Pulling the Guard, which ran in October 1967.
For Barnes, who found a lifelong friend in Chargers quarterback and later US congressman and vice presidential nominee Jack Kemp, San Diego wasn’t just a place to play football—it was a city of creative and personal exploration.
“When my father landed in San Diego, he said, ‘I’m home,’” Barnes’ daughter Deidre “DD” Barnes says. “He was very comfortable there. He loved the city.”
The family rented an apartment on Dream Street in southeast San Diego. Barnes set up a painting studio in a back bedroom where he could practice his craft when he wasn’t playing football.
Pause Cafe-Coffee Break, 1985 | Ernie Barnes Courtesy of the Ernie Barnes Estate
“When we were young, paintings were all around us,” DD Barnes says. “Looking back as an adult, I realize how much art was a part of his life. In our apartment, my father had easels and paint all over the place.”
While suiting up for the Chargers, Barnes began moonlighting as a freelance illustrator for San Diego Magazine. This small step in his continued development as an artist came with a small paycheck compared to what was in his future.
“When he worked for San Diego Magazine, he was trying to raise money—football players weren’t paid much back then,” Rodriguez explains.
“My father made about $600 a month playing for the Chargers,” DD Barnes adds. “He was selling art whenever he could, and, in the off-season, he worked at the YMCA.”
Courtesy of Ernie Barnes Estate This illustration from the August 1964 issue of San Diego Magazine accompanied a story Barnes himself wrote about violence in professional football.
Shortly after his move to SD, Barnes met with Edwin Self, this magazine’s founder and then-editor. In his autobiography, Barnes describes Self challenging him to write and illustrate an article detailing his feelings towards the violence in pro football:
I was thrilled and eagerly began the assignment, working all day at a typewriter in the time-worn “hunt and peck” method. At the end of the first week, I presented my manuscript to Mr. Self. After reading it through, he said, “Right! I think you’re onto something, Ernie. Write it over.” I went at it again, only to be told, “It’s better, Ernie. Now do it again.” I really wanted so badly to give up, but something prevented me from hanging it up. After a series of meetings and the subsequent rewrites, Mr. Self finally said, “Ernie, we have a good article. Now illustrate it.” When “Pro Football Is Not Dirty . . . On Purpose” appeared in San Diego Magazine, I was proud. Really proud.
The article ran across four pages in August 1964. Barnes also illustrated a number of other SDM stories in the ’60s, including one by legendary SD muckraker Harold Keen.
Sugar Shack, 1976 | Ernie Barnes
Today, when people talk about Ernie Barnes, they often start with The Sugar Shack—a 1970s depiction of a Black juke joint bursting with boogie and bliss that launched him into the crossroads of American culture. The painting was seen weekly in the credits of the popular ’70s CBS sitcom Good Times and was featured on the cover of Marvin Gaye’s 1976 album I Want You. Today, the original is owned by actor Eddie Murphy, who purchased it for $50,000 from the estate of Marvin Gaye after the singer’s death. It could, however, be worth 500 times that amount—a reproduction of The Sugar Shack done by Barnes sold at Christie’s in 2022 for more than $15 million.
Carter, who grew up seeing Barnes’ work on calendars and prints in countless living rooms, dorms, and dens, says The Sugar Shack holds a special place in his understanding of Barnes.
The piece captures what Carter calls “the joy of engagement,” a quality he says runs through all of Barnes’ art. “It feels so fun to have a relationship with a painting that is serious in its unseriousness,” Carter adds. “This is a painting you can kick it with, for real.”
Skins and Shirts, 1988 | Ernie Barnes Barnes painted sports of all kinds. He was named the official artist of the American Football League and later the official sports artist of the 1984 LA Olympics.
But Barnes’ legacy isn’t just about The Sugar Shack. Following his retirement from the football field, he was named the official artist of the American Football League and later the official sports artist of the 1984 LA Olympics. His work was featured on additional legendary album covers from Curtis Mayfield, B.B. King, the Crusaders, and Donald Byrd. He was a true working artist, a rare feat for any painter, much less a Black painter whose career began before the passage of the Civil Rights Act.
Barnes called his style neo-mannerism, a nod to Renaissance Italian painters, but his work is also frequently associated with the Ashcan school, which focused on scenes of everyday life, often in poorer urban areas of the US in the early 1900s.
Dead Heat, 2004 | Ernie Barnes
“His mentor [chairman of the art department at North Carolina College Ed Wilson] told him to slow down and pay attention to what’s right in front of him,” Carter explains. “To see a story even in something as simple as a shoe on the sidewalk.”
His approach gained him growing fame, even after his death in 2009.
“So many people know the work, even if they don’t know the artist,” Carter says. “The style is unforgettable, and it keeps finding ways to live on.”
Rodriguez echoes this sentiment, pointing to the enduring demand for Barnes’ paintings—as well as that record auction sale that introduced Barnes to a new audience.
The Maestro, 1971 | Ernie Barnes
“The art world finally became aware of him,” Rodriguez says. “He had a base of loyal collectors and followers, and now it’s all coming together. There are always new collectors coming in—athletes, celebrities, and people who grew up with Ernie Barnes’ art.”
Former NBA player and current LA Clippers coach Tyronn Lue recently purchased a Barnes original.
“The piece I purchased immediately resonated with me because it was a picture of a woman which conjured up thoughts of my mother and aunts and grandmother,” Lue told SDM. “I plan on adding more Ernie Barnes to my collection. Several of his basketball pieces, especially those in rural settings, remind me of my background and where I came from.”
Courtesy of Ernie Barnes Estate Ernie Barnes with his painting In Remembrance, 2001
Arts District Liberty Station officially became one of the state’s designated cultural districts, joining a list reserved for places with thriving creative communities. Considering the campus is home to more than 100 galleries, artist studios, museums, and arts organizations—not to mention The Joan, the 42,000-square-foot performance center housing Cygnet Theatre—it was only a matter of time until the district got its flowers.
Best Deterrent of Public Vandalism
Vision Culture Foundation
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. The National City Public Works building has been a target of graffiti artists for years, only to be constantly painted over (and the cycle restarts). Now, it’s working with the local artists from Vision Culture Foundation to create intentional public murals. A win-win in our book.
One of the biggest questions this year is who will show up for San Diego arts and culture—so a Best Of nod goes to a nonprofit that’s been doing it for years. Founded by longtime arts advocate Susanna Peredo Swap, Vanguard Culture has staged events for creatives, told their stories, and just created an SD ARTS Pass—a single ticket that gets you access to 39 creative spots.
Photo credit: Carly Topazio
Best Way to Overcome Your Fear of Ghosts
The Rosin Box Project
Ballet’s already got a sort of otherworldly thing going for it, with people morphing into 90-degree angles and defying gravity with each pirouette. The Rosin Box Project feels like a raw, creative new force in the classic art form, though—especially with its annual Ghost Light Masquerade. It’s a dance of eerie spirits that makes you second-guess what’s real and what’s not.
Best Music Venue That Also Sells Hot Dogs
Gallagher Square
Once upon a time, Gallagher Square was just a grassy knoll behind the outfield wall at Petco Park. Now, it’s a concert venue, playground, play ball field, dog park, and unofficial home for those who prefer the vibe of baseball more than the actual game. Big-time performers are showing up: Ms. Lauryn Hill, Cypress Hill, and Peach Pit.
Best Local Canvas
Casa Casillas
Casa Casillas has filled a long-standing gap in Chula Vista’s art scene. Open since last August, the space gives local artists a dedicated venue to display their work and visitors a chance to explore the neighborhood’s vibrant art. Two rotating resident artists always keep the space moving, so it rarely looks the same twice.
Courtesy of Alley Cat Art Fest
Best Place to Say “I Think It’s About Capitalism”
Alley Cat Art Fest
El Cajon translates to “the box” in Spanish—a nod to the city’s surrounding hills—but Alley Cat Art Fest (previously called Artivál) doesn’t stay inside it. As the first arts festival in East County, it celebrates local galleries, sculpture, live music, and food trucks—the whole nine.
Best On-Two-Feet Art Tour
Barrio Art Crawl
Every second Saturday, Barrio Logan turns into a choose-your-own-adventure with the Barrio Art Crawl, a free self-guided art tour through galleries, museums, and murals, with street food and music filling in the gaps. Barrio is one of the city’s most thriving arts neighborhoods, and it’s worth getting a bit lost in.
Leave it to The Old Globe to give the local theater scene some Hollywood glamour. Katie Holmes led the premiere of Henrik Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler this past spring, turning the classic Norwegian play into one of the most buzzed-about theater productions of the year.
Siblings make better music. That’s the hot take, and there’s some logic and science behind it. The Bee Gees, Jackson 5, Billie Eilish and Finneas, AC/DC, Van Halen, The Allman Brothers—heck, even the Hanson brothers, why not? Beyond just a shared sense of taste and nonverbal communication developed over decades of living and evolving together, there’s a thing called “blood harmony.” The genetically similar throat cavities, vocal cords, speech patterns, and resonant bone structures all blend each unique voice into a more homophonic sound than what comes out of two non-related singers.
Those throat cavities are working wonders for emerging San Diego band We the Commas—three brothers (from oldest to youngest) Lenny, Jordon, and Cam Comma.
Raised in Vista and Carlsbad, the family opted out of cable TV (video games got a pass). Without binge-watching to fill bored hours, the trio turned to music. Guitar Hero led to GarageBand and finally to live instruments—guitars for Lenny and Cam, drum set for Jordon. In their sound, the influence of Stevie Wonder, Erykah Badu, The Who, and Dave Matthews Band is obvious, and so is surf culture, specifically that laid-back chill of North County surf culture.
“We’re like the Black Beach Boys,” Cam says. (Note: Three of the five founding members of the Beach Boys were siblings—the theory gets stronger.)
Their debut EP pretty clearly lays out how they see their sound—titled SARB, an acronym for Surf Alternative R&B. That resonates in the song “Sherry,” with its easy-listening, windows-down-on-the-101 vibe. It also works in the louder, surf-punkier “Pissed Off.” Despite some advances in reducing core stereotyping tendencies, people still tend to autofill Black musicians into rap and R&B. The Comma brothers immediately circumvent that by declaring themselves out the gates.
“SARB makes it so [listeners are] open to all of the things that we want to do,” Lenny says. “From there, you can put a label on whatever you think it sounds like.”
Courtesy of We the Commas
People—and musicians further up the stream—are taking note. In 2023, they co-wrote the song “I Keep Fallin’” with Eric Cannata, guitarist for multi-platinum SoCal band Young the Giant. In early 2024, they were tapped to open the national tour of Brooklyn’s jazz-pop heroes, Sammy Rae & The Friends. Comedian Gabriel “Fluffy” Iglesias invited them to warm up his show at Pechanga a couple months later.
“We really believe genuinely, with our whole hearts, minds and souls, that this is going to work the way that we think it’s going to,” Cam says, grinning ear to ear.
Currently, the Commas live together in Vista, and the dream, wholeheartedly, is more alive than ever. They’ve put out two dozen singles and a trio of EPs: SARB (2020), Old School Love (2021), and Aeroplane (2024); this year alone brought the release of three new singles, including “Let Me,” a silky-smooth entry in their growing collection of love songs.
“We fully realized the magic is in all of us together,” Lenny says. “We know that this doesn’t happen without each person, and we have respect for each other because we need each other.”
As they grow as brothers and as a band, the Commas try to always remember what unified them in the first place.
Ryan Hardison is a freelance arts and entertainment writer and recent graduate of San Diego State. When he's not staring at his laptop, he's likely eating an adobada burrito or getting sunburnt at the beach.
How Scrojo Became One of Rock’s Most Prolific Poster Artists
The San Diego designer has created more than 3,000 concert posters over nearly 40 years for artists including the Rolling Stones and the Red Hot Chili Peppers
When he was in high school, he and his friends were trying to come up with the perfect name for their punk band that would encapsulate all their personas. Nicaragua. The Freds.
One of his friends said he was going to go by Jimmy Stacks and called it “the perfect rock and roll name.” Their names changed so much that Haskett erupted: “Fine, I’m f—ing Scrotum Joe, the true defender of the Open West.”
Their response: Wow, that’s a great name.
As a teenager, he drew chalkboards for Del Mar’s Pannikin coffee shop and would design T-shirts for surf/skate brand Life’s a Beach. He signed the shirts with his moniker, but even in punk rebellion, who wants a shirt with the words Scrotum Joe on it? “They just cut out the ‘t-u-m,’ and the next thing you know, a client referred to me as that, and it stuck,” he says.
Courtesy of Scrojo
Scrojo could have been part of a band as iconic as The Misfits—had he been able to learn the famously cumbersome bassline to The Kingsmen’s “Louie Louie.” Becoming one of the most renowned concert poster designers—someone who quite literally designed the cover of Art of Modern Rock: The Poster Explosion—is a pretty good Plan B.
“To my knowledge, he’s done more rock posters than anybody else alive,” says Dennis King, whose D. King Gallery in Berkeley, California, serves as one of the largest private rock poster collections in the world. “He’s the hardest-working guy in the poster business.”
King not only co-authored the sequel to music historian Paul Grushkin’s The Art of Rock, but he also handles distribution and sales for all of Scrojo’s work. That’s more than 3,000 different posters over nearly 40 years. (That’s over one poster each week. For four decades straight.)
For anything from boxing matches to rodeos, posters have long been used as promotional items. Toulouse-Lautrec’s famous lithographs advertised Moulin Rouge in the late 1800s. Around the same time, Hatch Show Print in Nashville was making handbills for the Grand Ole Opry.
“I propose this: Cave paintings are the first poster art,” Scrojo says.
Courtesy of Scrojo
Rock and roll posters took off in the 1960s, when the hippie counterculture era replaced conformity and suburbia. Artists like Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead used their vibrant, psychedelic prints as a form of rebellion from the mainstream. Posters were promotional, commemorative, collectible, and especially expressive.
If the name Scrojo is any indication, he doesn’t shy away from imagery that toes the line of being too provocative. He focused more on what inspired him instead of trying to be offensive for the sake of getting attention.
“Didn’t want to show it to my grandmother, but my parents were fine with it,” Scrojo says with a laugh.
“We’ve had to ask him to put a Band-Aid over a nipple every now and then,” says Chris Goldsmith, president of Belly Up Tavern in Solana Beach, where Scrojo started out and hundreds of his posters currently line the walls.
Scrojo spent six weeks at Otis College of Art and Design for a summer semester before drugs, alcohol, and a self-described lack of discipline prevented him from enrolling full time. Still, he taught himself concepts like text hierarchy and later found his niche at the Belly Up and in the surfing and skating world, working with brands like Quiksilver, Rip Curl, Scorpion Bay, and DGK.
His first concert poster was for North County band Borracho y Loco, of which Goldsmith was bass guitarist. Scrojo drew an abstract version of the Belly Up’s iconic shark with colorful calypso and tiki themes.
Early on, he would craft using a pencil, pen, non-reproduction blue pencil, X-Acto knife, rubber knife, and proportion scale to create each poster, and the finished product could take a week or even longer.
Courtesy of Scrojo
“I recommend every artist coming up to do that for like six weeks,” Scrojo says. “It forces you to think about every design decision as you’re going along.”
He has since mastered vector imagery through Adobe Illustrator to the point where, depending on the level of detail needed, he could finish two projects in a day. Still, he fills sketchbook after sketchbook to blueprint.
“I liked his line in particular, and he knows how to draw, which a lot of people don’t really know how to do these days,” King says.
Scrojo would research what each musician’s merchandise looks like to get a feel for each artist’s tone and voice. Once he has his central image in mind, he focuses on what and where to place the text.
He doesn’t have one specific style, ranging his talents from art deco to psychedelic and everything in between (and outside the lines). Want a pop surrealist comic book cartoon devil with splattered paint textures, halftone dot patterns, and pure chaos? Red Hot Chili Peppers, February 1986. Want a minimalist graphic portrait with bold strokes and graffiti text? P!nk, October 2023. Want a carnival sideshow style piece with a tasteful caricature of Jeff Bridges? The Big Lebowski, August 2011.
Scrojo calls himself a jack of all trades because he can create posters for all music genres. King calls him a chameleon for his ability to adapt his voice to new eras.
Courtesy of Scrojo
“The variety of his skillset makes it possible for us to put 50 of his posters on a wall next to each other and have it look compelling, not just a bunch of the same thing over and over,” Goldsmith says.
Some of Scrojo’s favorite posters are when he feels a personal connection to the artist or the album. He has a vivid memory as a child of being trapped in a closet filled with marijuana leaves while playing hide and seek and staring at Jimmy Cliff’s “The Harder They Come” LP. “For whatever reason, as a kid, that sparked a desire to do graphic design,” Scrojo says.
Fast forward to February 2012, Cliff is performing at Belly Up. Scrojo decided to modify Cliff’s original album cover from rainbow gradient fills to classic reggae psychedelia while preserving Cliff’s striped pants and bold hat. Cliff’s manager called him and said they wanted to use it for the rest of their tour.
“We always get artists requesting that he does their posters,” Goldsmith says. “A lot of artists don’t want venues to go all rogue because they want to control how they’re being presented. With him, they’re like, ‘Let him go nuts.’”
Matt Eisenberg is an award-winning writer and photographer based in San Diego. A former ESPN editor, his work has also been published by CNN, Bleacher Report and the New York Daily News.
A perfectly designed home rarely happens by accident. Those kitchens that feel effortless and rooms that seem to tell a story the second you walk in? They’re usually the work of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
It’s knowing which ideas will actually work, which materials will hold up over time, and how to turn a collection of choices into a space that feels intentional. That’s where a professional interior designer comes in.
For the American Society of Interior Designers (ASID) California San Diego Chapter, the goal is to help people see interior design as more than just the finished look. Behind every well-designed space is a process built on technical expertise. Designers are educated in everything from professional software and construction details to building codes, space planning, materials, and functionality.
Courtesy of ASID
“People don’t always realize how much goes on behind the scenes,” Kirsten Recce , current president of the ASID California San Diego Chapter, says. “Our designers are not just doing furniture placement and color selection and picking out new fluffy pillows. That’s not what they’re trained for.”
ASID members bring formal education, continued learning, and industry knowledge to their projects, helping create spaces that are not only beautiful, but designed to work. A paint color that changes completely depending on the lighting. A material that looks beautiful in a showroom but doesn’t make sense for everyday life. A layout that photographs well but doesn’t function for the people living there. These are the details where professional guidance can make all the difference.
Still, one of the biggest misconceptions about hiring an interior designer is that it’s reserved for massive renovations, luxury homes, or people who already know exactly what they want. The process can feel intimidating. Where do you begin? Is a designer worth the investment? What if you only need help with one room?
ASID’s answer: start with one hour.
ASID’s Spruce Up events break down one of the biggest barriers between homeowners and professional design: knowing where to begin. Held twice a year, the community program gives homeowners the chance to work directly with an ASID designer through a one-hour, $125 consultation in their own home. Whether you’re looking for advice on furniture placement, window treatments, kitchen and bath updates, remodeling ideas, vacation rentals, color selections or something else entirely, the upcoming September 2026 event offers an approachable way to get expert guidance before committing to a full project. Signups are open through Sept. 7, with consultations taking place Sept. 21 through Oct. 31. Proceeds benefit ASID San Diego’s educational and community programs. Register here!
Courtesy of ASID
“It’s a great opportunity for people who are in that exploratory phase,” Recce says. “Maybe they’re not sure they want to hire an interior designer yet, or they think it sounds daunting or expensive. This gives them a chance to discover what working with a designer is actually like.”
Design is personal. A good designer isn’t just creating a beautiful room; they’re helping create a space that fits the way someone lives.
“We’re a resource to all of San Diego County,” Recce says. “It doesn’t cost anything to pick up the phone and call and ask. We’ll answer.”
“This is insane!” the guy filming it seems to proclaim. “It’s the best fireworks show ever!” a companion confirms, inspiring a debate lasting over a decade.
All told, 7,000 fireworks exploded in the span of 25 seconds over San Diego Bay on July 4, 2012. A Michael Bay amount of unison. $125,000 worth of shells, cakes, Roman candles, and skyrockets had been placed on a barge—enough for 17 minutes of decorative sky flares—and…
Boom.
The sky looked like someone had set a giant Rorschach test on fire. Or as if whatever we all see in our Rorschachs—butterflies, clowns, tongue kissing, dads—was being electrocuted and lifted heavenward, amen. It was shocking how bright it was, how much it sizzled the local cosmos. Could’ve been one of those sci-fi films where a hole is ripped open between warring universes. But angstier, more metal—the work of some methy creator in a sleeveless concert tee.
The sound?
Lou Reed once released an entire album that contained 64 minutes of mindflaying guitar screeches and machine noises. No regular songs, just a fascinating amount of ear distress. His record label reps no doubt heard the melodic outro of their careers, but everyone else was in pain and stumped. That album still sounded better than the bay did that night. The bay sounded like a god who struggled with emotional regulation had blown his speakers and was working through the anger stage of AV grief.
In the left frame of the video, a middle-aged woman is attempting to drag her husband off by the hand. In no way does he want to go, possibly because he had missed the time Roseanne Barr sung the national anthem at a Padres game, simultaneously disemboweling and amusing America through the power of song. He would not willingly abandon an equally worthy San Diego trainwreck.
Another woman in the video appears to have just filled her beer, rushing to sit down for the show. She pauses mid-sit and returns to the full and upright position to properly bear witness. What was supposed to be prolonged entertainment has been so radically shortened that she will have to find another reason to drink. Lucky for her, drinking will be the only way to adequately process.
Locals remember the conspiracy theories. People wondered if the fuses had been tripped by a saboteur who was sympathetic to dogs, fish, or the growing suspicion that late-stage capitalism is a gorgeously branded but impossible dream sustained by remarkably efficient top-tier wealth retention and the soft compliance of fireworks-watchers who can no longer afford a house, a beer, or the personal impacts of human reproduction.
Speaking of being terrified of babies, babies were terrified. The children who witnessed it probably still can’t go near a candle store. But those kids will be tougher, perfectly scarred kids. They’ll write better songs.
That night helped us absolutely dominate the national news cycle. For a hot minute, we became America’s water-skiing squirrel. Now, years later, when you Google “fireworks gone wrong,” San Diego is always a top contender, along with that poor Nebraska family who nearly wiped out a couple generations in their front yard, their minivan somehow turning into a howitzer of recreational TNT.
There is still debate as to whether Big Bay Boom 2012 is the worst or greatest fireworks show of all time. But the advanced parts of civilization arrived at the truth as quickly as the women in the video did. It was undeniably amazing.
First of all, the point of Fourth of July fireworks isn’t “the intricate choreography of sky fire over a guaranteed amount of show time.” It’s about creating a vivid memory shared with some people you like, love, or would like to love.
BBB2012 used large-scale chemical fire to create the ultimate memory.
Sure, some people who iron their jeans subjected their family to a sermon about how San Diego managed to botch America’s birthday like a Disney princess-for-hire who smelled of quite a few Sauvignons.
The rest of us saw how perfectly it nailed the actual feeling of being an American. Because only a miniscule percentage of us bake postcard apple pies where every inch of crust is perfectly laminated like the wood in an Irish bar. Very few of us can paint on par with Picasso. The rest of us—despite truly believing in our America-activated abilities to achieve greatness in almost any field of our choosing—burn pies. We try to paint only to realize it looks like our fine motor skills have entered active death.
That’s why BBB2012 was the most perfectly American fireworks show ever: A wildly ambitious idea galvanized thousands upon thousands of people to both work on it and come to hold a beer and gawk at it, only to have it fail in the most glorious TMZ-level spectacle.
America isn’t about immaculate, storyless wins. It’s about how the framework of a country is solid enough that we can accidentally detonate our entire lives—a few times—and still probably be OK.
No one has America’d quite like San Diego did on that day. It was performance art. Lou Reed’s heart slow-clapped. Any brief municipal embarrassment quickly became a pride of our people. I can only hope the same for the Nebraskan yard family whose Dodge Aerostar became a hyperactive Death Star.
P.S. Local writer Maya Kroth compiled a quite great oral history of that night for Thrillist. The bottom lines for me were—it took nine months to prepare, no one was hurt, and even though the pyrotechnics company tried to zero out the bill, Big Bay Boom founder H. P. “Sandy” Purdon refused and paid them in full. This year will mark the 25th Anniversary of the yearly Big Bay Boom.
Troy Johnson is the magazine’s award-winning food writer and humorist, and a long-standing expert on Food Network. His work has been featured on NatGeo, Travel Channel, NPR, and in Food Matters, a textbook of the best American food writing.
If absence makes hearts (and stomachs) grow fonder, then shuttered restaurants quickly become the hottest tickets in town—something a number of iconic institutions found out after taking very public hiatuses after historically long runs. For instance, following a lengthy (and extremely flip-floppy) closing process after 92 years in business, Las Cuatro Milpas reopened two blocks away in Mercado del Barrio. Similarly, Carlsbad butcher shop Tip Top Meats reopened in the same location (albeit a smaller space) after the death of founder Joachim “Big John” Haedrich in 2023. Finally, after a whopping decade out of business, Sami Ladeki and chef Alfie Szeprethy brought back Roppongi to its original Prospect Street space, where it was the talk of the town in the late ’90s. All came back under the same proprietors, so they weren’t third-party nostalgia-licensing deals. The algorithm may have ravaged our attention spans away from all but the newest and shiniest, but this proves there’s still hope for our collective prefrontal cortex.
Other local eateries honored their pasts by bringing in new perspectives. The Lion’s Share in Embarcadero, Milton’s Deli in Del Mar, Dudley’s Bakery in Santa Ysabel, and J-K’s Greek Cafe in La Mesa handed over the keys to new owners willing to take on a big task: maintain the soul of icons through particularly rough economic circumstances for restaurants, navigate big feelings from longtime regulars (who often don’t take kindly to change), and make some necessary changes to keep going for another few decades. Taking over a project in process can be a lot harder than starting from scratch. But building that feel-good nostalgia doesn’t happen overnight, so it sure helps to have a well-established playbook of success passed down from those who came before.
Courtesy of Sugarfish
The Expansion Class Arrives
It wasn’t just restaurant groups from Los Angeles that decided to put down roots en masse, although San Diego saw plenty of LA transplants recently (Sugarfish, Mr. Charlie’s, For the Win, Katsuya Ko, Bacari). Global brands like Chef Fei, Zuma, and Pepper Lunch have locations of their own on the way, and upscale Canadian eatery Joey joined to the inescapable gravitational pull of Westfield UTC’s culinary cosmos for its first spot in America’s Finest City. Good to see the rest of the world is catching up with what we’ve been seeing the last few years—San Diego is a dining destination already on the rise.
Choosing To Not Choose
Between the never-ending news cycle of doom and perimenopause brain fog, I’m at the stage in life where I’m more than happy to let someone else make a decision for me, especially when it comes to what’s for dinner. And based on the way a lot of menus look right now, I’m not alone. It seems like half the places I visit offer some version of a prix fixe, omakase, or tasting menu. Restaurants are embracing the curated experience to solve the problem of affordability (a fixed menu reduces food and labor costs, guarantees an acceptable check average, etc.) and critical thinking in one fell swoop. Omakase (meaning “I leave it up to you”) is far from a new concept in high-end Japanese sushi culture, but now that it’s popping up everywhere from coffee experiences to grab-and-go sushi and sandwiches, it’s gone from somewhat niche to nearly omnipresent.
Courtesy of Rikka Fika
Local Coffee Hit the World Stage
The world got an up-close look at San Diego’s coffee industry when we hosted the premier specialty coffee expo World of Coffee for the first time this April. San Diego’s long and rich coffee history stretches back to the late 19th century. Things percolated fairly quietly for around a century before really picking up steam. Today, there are nearly 200 specialty roasters and cafes across the county, with many earning national accolades like the Good Food Award (Steady State Roasting, 2020; Bird Rock Coffee Roasters, 2023, 2021, 2019, 2017, 2016), Roaster of the Year by Roast Magazine (Mostra Coffee, 2020; Bird Rock Coffee Roasters, 2012), and the Specialty Coffee Association Coffee Design Award for packaging (Rikka Fika, 2026). Now that we’ve moved past the comically insufferable coffee snob era of the early 2000s, even java newbies can feel comfortable walking into pretty much any coffee shop in San Diego, asking questions, trying a few things, and feeling confident they’re going to get great service and a great beverage.
Beth Demmon is an award-winning writer and podcaster whose work regularly appears in national outlets and San Diego Magazine. Her first book, The Beer Lover's Guide to Cider, is now available. Find out more on bethdemmon.com.
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