How San Diego Became a Disaster Zone

The Groundlings improv theater has churned out world-famous comedic talents like Will Ferrell and Maya Rudolph. And in San Diego, a former Groundling has used that training to campaign for a higher power. The power to protect bees.

“The goal was to try and get on SNL,” says Jeff Russell of his time in the improv troupe. “[But now], I have an audience, and I get to crack jokes and be silly and entertain and educate.”

That audience? The over 4 million people who follow Mr. and Mrs. Bee Rescue in the socialmediaverse. Jeff and his wife, Julie, operate the business, which means they remove unwelcome bees without harming them and rehome them to apiaries throughout the county. Their social media is a hub of videos of Jeff peeling open car trunks, flooring, barbecues—any cozy spot for a bee to set up shop—and using smoke to coax them out of the hive (sometimes working sans gloves or protective gear).

Bees in a hive will follow their queen, so finding and moving her helps speed along the relocation process. It’s “a really hard game of Where’s Waldo,” Julie says. But there’s a secret to it: “If the bees start running completely in some random opposite direction in a hurry, then we know that the queen is probably that direction,” says Jeff. Their social videos document this process in a way that turns a reasonable nightmare (being swarmed by bees) into a form of entertainment and advocacy. The Russells spread the apian gospel, sharing why relocating bees is the only option to consider.

Since the 1960s, bee populations across the US have shrunk drastically for a slew of reasons—habitat loss (postwar industrialization led to fewer farms and crops), climate change (petulant temps affect blooming schedules), and pesticides (when used improperly, they can be toxic for bees).

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Bees are also responsible for up to 75 percent of all flowering plants; 35 percent of food crops rely on animal pollinators to reproduce. So, basically, we’d be living in a flowerless world fueled by a diet of wind-pollinated oats and Red Dye 40 without them.

Jeff and Julie met on Tinder in 2016. “It would have been more appropriate if we met on Bumble,” Julie says. A photographer and graphic designer, she had no experience in a swarm of stingers before 2018. When Jeff broke his back surfing, she had no choice but to step in. Later, when she was laid off from her job in 2020, she focused on growing Mr. and Mrs. Bee Removal’s social media accounts. That’s when their business took off. These videos work. People are learning.

“Quite a lot of my customers were [initially] like, ‘Why don’t we just kill?’” Jeff says. “Now, the vast majority are like, ‘You take them alive, don’t you?’”

Rub some dirt on it. Walk it off. Be a man. The tropes and reasons for men ignoring their health and doing preventive care are many, reinforced by action heroes and generational norms. As a result, compared to American women, American men live an average of five years less, seek healthcare treatment half as often, and die by suicide nearly four times more often.

Many national campaigns have tried to change this. This year’s “Relax Your Tight End” ad from Novartis during the Super Bowl—in which NFL legends advocated for early prostate cancer screenings—was a high-profile example. Meanwhile, in San Diego, Evan Miller seems to have figured it out.

Miller founded Gameday Men’s Health in 2018 as a small clinic in Carlsbad. The idea was to create a space men would actually want to spend time in. So he built Gameday to feel more like a sports bar or a man cave—snacks, sports on oversized, high-def flat screens in the waiting room. He personalized the care for each client, made the experience more casual, and, above all, efficient. If the wait for payoff is too long, Miller says, men won’t show up for their health.

“We need to feel better quick,” he says. “So that’s where the real hook with Gameday is: It’s fast; it works quick.”

The idea has worked. Big time.

Gameday now has 430 locations spread across 46 US states and parts of Canada, with hundreds more set to open over the next three years.

Prior to Gameday, Miller—who has a Ph.D. in clinical psychology—ran Akua Mind Body, an addiction treatment center in Newport Beach. After selling the center, Miller says he searched for a new way to help his community.

He drew from his behavioral health training and dispiriting past experiences with “sketchy” men’s clinics, albeit with a slightly different concept at first.

“My original idea for Gameday, funny enough, was men’s group therapy,” Miller says. “I wanted to put it in this ‘man cave’ environment because I knew guys wouldn’t show up otherwise.”

Initially envisioned as safe spaces to encourage men to open up emotionally, Miller pivoted to a more clinical approach with an athletic design that personally appealed to him. Soon, it evolved into a one-stop shop of compounded medication treatments for weight loss plans, hair loss treatments, anti-aging injections, sexual wellness strategies, and testosterone replacement therapy. The hotly debated trend of peptides—mini amino acid proteins that the FDA has yet to approve—has become a popular feature.

New patients undergo in-clinic assessments for testosterone and prostate levels with the goal of producing test results in just a quarter of an hour. “Our philosophy with our treatments is we only do what the research supports,” Miller says.

An Orange County native, Miller found Carlsbad to be a natural headquarters. He found a much bigger market in coastal North County of men seeking a boost—both in their marriages and their overall livelihoods. The pandemic proved to be a watershed moment, with front-yard gyms and outdoor, highly visible exercise sparking a wave of self-care. According to Cleveland Clinic, after the pandemic, about 20 percent of men started to exercise more and eat healthier, with a quarter of men reporting they scheduled more sleep and spent more time with family.

“When Covid happened, [suddenly] everyone looked in the mirror and was like, ‘I need to take care of my health; I have to do everything possible to get in shape,’” Miller says.

Two years after Gameday first began, Miller opened a second clinic in Temecula, followed by locations in Laguna Beach and Newport. Demand kept coming, so they started franchising in 2023. They sold 1,000 licenses in the first year. By 2025, they had over 400 clinics across the country.

When asked about the rapid growth, Miller cites the feedback he received along the way: “People were so excited about men’s health, cash-pay medicine, and not having to wait for insurance. They understood the model. It was for guys; it felt like ESPN meets healthcare.”

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Now Miller says Gameday is starting to map out a global expansion—to Europe, Latin America, and the Middle East. Since the company first cultivated a following, Miller says there have been persistent questions about whether Gameday would ever expand its focus to include women. Their answer: Her Way.

“We only offer a very narrow menu, almost like In-N-Out Burger, because we stay in our lane, we do it really, really well, and we gain trust that way,” Miller says. “So we created the Her Way model to do the same thing for women [that] we’ve done with men.”

Her Way Health & Hormones launched in 2024 in clinics with more neutral and calming décor. With locations in Carlsbad and Mission Valley, it will officially start franchising this summer. Miller seems incapable of thinking small and expects around 1,000 Her Way locations to open nationwide within a few years.

You visit your favorite ancient Egyptian merchant, and as you’re buying some papyrus to hieroglyph your way to the 3000 B.C. version of a Pulitzer, he slips you a special token as a thank you for being so loyal. It’s the least he can do for keeping him in business, and you can use that reward to barter for anything you want—like beer.

A few thousand years later, those tokens would evolve to copper coins that American retailers handed out so you could spend. The Sperry & Hutchinson company introduced its groundbreaking “Green Stamps” program in the late 1800s. Today, your sandwich shop’s loyalty card is one hole punch away from giving you a free sub. And you’ve surely justified some extravagant purchases in the name of airline miles.

Point is: Free stuff has always been a compelling way to earn human loyalty. And with his Solana Beach–based company Wildfire Systems, Jordan Glazier has built one of the city’s biggest tech companies by modernizing that simple, ancient idea.

“Being able to save money when you shop is nice to have when times are good,” Glazier says. “When you have periods of inflation or financial stress, that nice-to-have becomes a must-have.”

He launched Wildfire in 2017. It’s essentially a white-label platform that builds and operates programs for enterprise brands across most industries—from banking (Visa, Citi, Wells Fargo) to aerospace (Lockheed Martin) to tech (Dell, Salesforce), to retail (Macy’s, Sephora), you name it. Customers of, say, HBO Max (also a client), can install a browser extension or enable a feature on a mobile app that activates savings and cashback offers. Wildfire has now spent three straight years on Inc. 5000’s list of the fastest-growing private companies.

Glazier’s no stranger to scaling new ideas. As one of the early executives at eBay, he built and ran the consumer electronics, computer, and industrial equipment verticals. Later he turned San Diego tech company Eventful into the world’s largest online calendar and events discovery platform (CBS acquired it in 2014).

“Part of being an entrepreneur is building things and solving for things that haven’t been solved before,” he says.

It’s a lesson he learned early on. His grandparents started a women’s clothing manufacturing company in Chicago in the 1910s, and it remained a family business for over seven decades. Preteen Glazier would punch in as a stock boy and sit with the sales team making phone calls.

“That was my very first paycheck,” he says with a smile.

Now he and his own team of 70 have grown Wildfire’s revenue 721 percent over the past three years.

“I want to make sure we are building a business that’s built to last,” he says. “We are eight years in, and I feel like we’re just getting started.”

Glazier named the company because of how people recommend products and services to each other. Great shirt, where’d you get it? Anyone know of a good sushi spot? “Word of mouth,” he says, “spreads like wildfire.”

San Diego’s tech industry seems to come and go. There were predictions that the post-pandemic, remote work world would see all luminous brains migrating south to our famous clime, but that has been only partially the case. As tides turn, big names like Glazier’s hold anchor.

“San Diego is such a great place to live and to build a business,” he says. “I always feel sorry for people who don’t live here.”

Edna Harper asked for one thing before she died: that the next owner of her iconic Mission Hills home keep the street-facing “garden.” Which is essentially asking the future residents to be curators of a whimsical and obsessive, delightful and strange, classic, cartoony and slightly unhinged sculpture museum. Harper, who died in January at the age of 87, poured her heart into this topiary bonanza, and it’s right there for everyone to see.

Like thousands (or millions, there’s no formal estimation) of others, I had scrolled through the photos of this topiary fantasia before I ever stood in front of it. As of this writing, Harper’s Topiary Garden is No. 227 of 2,686 Things to Do in San Diego on Tripadvisor, making it a popular tourist stop between fish tacos, a day at the beach, and a stroll in nearby Presidio Park. But crowdsourced photos quickly snapped in direct overhead sunlight tend to flatten the shapes that, while meticulously manicured, refuse to behave. In person, Harper’s figures seem to be in motion and, given that they’re sculpted out of bushes, they literally are. (I’d love to see a maintenance timelapse.)

Animals emerge out of shrubs as if they have impish ideas. A fanciful whale, a man in a sombrero, a random spiral twisting skyward, otherworldly creatures that defy categorization—all of these exist together in a neatly trimmed cascade pouring down the steep front slope of the property.

You don’t accidentally end up with a yard like this. You decide to create it and choose to cultivate it, and then you keep deciding and cultivating—for decades.

Although a consistent parade of looky-loos have visited over the years, most have never been inside the home, which is on the market for the first time since Harper and her husband, Alex (who died in 2020), bought it in 1969.

“It was and is a landmark,” says Christopher Delgado, Harper’s cousin and trustee of her estate. “She specialized in Chinese brush art and Japanese art called ‘sumi-e,’ a form of Zen art. She was a creator … she was very, very talented.”

I can’t stop thinking about Harper, sitting at the kitchen window, looking down at her masterpiece and the watchers watching it. The image of Harper enjoying the joy the public took from her handiwork makes me want to understand the woman behind the work. Because topiary, as an art form, has always been a little… loaded.

Topiary has always had a bit of an identity crisis—and that’s part of its charm.

When I think of topiary, I immediately think: Fancy. French bourgeoisie. Palace of Versailles. Mais non! Topiary has its origins in Rome. According to the Center for Architecture, the word “topiary” has its origins in late 16th century English, which combines the Greek word “topos” for place and the Latin word “topiarius” for ornamental gardner.

Topiary started as a flex, really. A Julius-Caesar-adjacent pastime for the most ancient one-percenters; an expression accessible only to those with land, labor (or, put more plainly, enslaved people), and spare time. In its earliest form, topiary was about control: bending nature into submission. It’s where symmetry and precision signaled order, taste, and money.

But with the collapse of the Roman Empire and the Dark Ages that followed, the topiary almost preceded the Dodo Bird in extinction. Monks quietly kept the art alive by growing herbs and manicuring the gardens and hedges within the courtyards of their monasteries.

It wasn’t until the Renaissance nine centuries later when topiary saw a resurgence—ah, Versailles!—and this form of pleasure gardening went into overdrive. Nature became architecture. The French pruned their foliage into iconic cones and obelisks, walls to keep out the riffraff, and ornamentation designed to impress. The Dutch got a little freaky, as they do, and sculpted complicated figures, animals, and even furniture.

Inevitably, the pendulum swung again, and topiary fell out of favor once it became viewed as excessive and even absurd. Even so, it never really disappeared. It just migrated to exist in a completely different paradigm. It was less Versailles and more, “What if this bush were a mouse?”

Fast forward to Disneyland in 1963. That year, the park opened a topiary garden in Fantasyland with verdant sculptures of giraffes, camels, elephants, and hippos all inspired by Denmark’s Tivoli Gardens.

Disney’s interpretation of topiary—which is still a fixture of park decor today—falls more into the realm of imagination and possibility than restrained aristocratic performance.

That’s one of the stranger throughlines of topiary: It moves from elite to everyday, from stiff and formal to playful and silly, from symbol of control to something steeped in personal expression.

Which is what makes a place like Harper’s Topiary Garden so compelling and the woman behind it utterly intriguing.

Born in 1938, Edna Harper was something of a Renaissance woman. She worked for two decades as a dental assistant, and she later became a notable painter, calligrapher, and stained glass artist (the house itself is adorned with her work). But she was also savvy in other ways.

“She graduated [with a degree in dental assisting] from San Diego City College and wanted to have her own money and her independence,” says Delgado. “Most people didn’t know that she was such a great businessperson, and for many years, she managed all of [the couple’s] properties on her own. She was great at building relationships … she touched a lot of people’s lives.”

Her friend and fellow artist Julie Roth attributes her artistry to her relationship with Harper. The pair met two decades ago at an art class at Oasis in Mission Valley.

“She was just the most encouraging person,” Roth says. “I didn’t know I could paint, but apparently I can. She was a tremendous person.”

I asked Roth what she’d want people to know about her friend.

“Her empathy and diplomacy,” she says. “[She had] a sharp eye for other talent. She spotted me, but I’m not the only one she encouraged.”

That sharp eye suggests attention, the same kind it takes to look at a bush and also see a whale. Or a spiral. Or something that doesn’t exist yet, but could.

Nothing about Harper’s life suggests someone chasing attention. And yet, she ended up creating something that demanded hers, and she took great pleasure in seeing people enjoy her creations.

The garden didn’t happen all at once. It grew out of years of travel, observation, and collaboration. Harper often traveled without her husband, always returning from trips to Japan, Thailand, and other parts of Asia with ideas and impressions captured through sketches in a notebook.

“She would get creative ideas from her travels … she’d come back with ideas and pictures, and they’d go about cutting that topiary bush into shape,” Delgado says.

For the past 25 years, she had the help of her gardener, Pedro Duran—who’s still employed by the trust and has maintained the garden since Harper’s passing.

In the early topiary years, Harper worked closely with Duran in what Delgado describes as a kind of shared “labor of love.” She would share her sketches and together the pair would shape the bushes into something deliberate.

“As she got older, she would increasingly draw her ideas and [Duran] would [carry them out],” Delgado says.

That collaboration reinforces that her garden was not an act of control, but one of creative collaboration and translation. From memory to sketch. From sketch to shrub. From something seen, somewhere else in the world, to something rooted in the soil of a steep hillside in Mission Hills.

Harper also made sure that the lawn’s boisterous energy made its way into the house on Union Street. Apparently, she threw legendary parties.

“Fairly regularly, in the late ’70s and ’80s, she would host Super Bowl parties with 200 people. She had TVs everywhere,” Delgado says.

It’s not hard to square that image with the stillness of the garden which, despite the careful pruning and intentional design, is voluminous and nearly vibrating.

And, damnit, I wish I’d watched some sportsball on her shocking number of TVs and wandered out front to the topiary—slightly wine-drunk with an orange smear of wing sauce on the corner of my mouth—to marvel at the leafy hippo and this woman’s elaborately creative life.

I can hear Delgado smiling as we talk on the phone. He’s going back to his childhood, when he talks about being one of the cousins Harper doted on when he visited.

“The adults were inside, and we’d be out in the camper,” he says, “and [Harper] would come check on us, make sure we were okay. She always had gifts for us. If it was Easter, there were chocolate eggs. If it was Christmas, stockings. We were the beneficiaries of them not having kids because they showered us with all their love.”

Knowing this and taking a look at her garden again, you can see it’s not the work of a shut-away curmudgeon. It’s wondrous, inviting, and the right kind of weird.

“Ultimately, she did it for herself and family, first and foremost,” Delgado says of Harper’s Topiary Garden.

Harper’s one request of whomever buys her home may seem like a focus on basic maintenance, about hedges and upkeep and preserving something visually striking. But it’s really about attention. And maybe, too, about legacy. Not hers, per se, but the legacy of community, relationships, art, creativity, possibility, adventure, culture, dedication, and love.

For now, it’s there for anyone to see, and its future is in the hands of whomever comes next.

There are two types of San Diegans in July: those who have their Pride Festival tickets, and those who wish they’d bought them sooner. Summer in San Diego already feels like a fever dream of sunshine and saltwater, and with Balboa Park turning it up to a level best described as joyfully unhinged, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

That’s right: San Diego Pride 2026 is bigger, louder, and more necessary than ever. From July 18–19, expect a full, unapologetic, flags-everywhere kind of weekend where the city opens its arms and means it. Here’s everything you need to know about San Diego Pride 2026.

When and where is the 2026 San Diego Pride Festival?

The San Diego Pride Festival takes over Marston Point in Balboa Park (6th Ave. & Laurel St.) on Saturday, July 18 (12 p.m. to 10 p.m.) and Sunday, July 19 (12 p.m. to 9 p.m.). 

How much are San Diego Pride Festival tickets?

Buy tickets early because prices go up closer to the weekend. Regular GA is priced at $45 for a single day or $75 for the full weekend. Once Pride Weekend pricing kicks in, that bumps to $48 for one day and $85 for two days. VIP Weekend starts at $269, and if you want a Meet & Greet with Hailie Sahar on July 18 at 2 p.m., tickets are $106. 

Seniors 65 years and older can grab a ticket at the box office for $15, and high schoolers and younger get in free, though they still need to stop by the box office for a ticket before entering. Regular pricing is available through July 17, so don’t wait until the last minute.

What to expect at the festival?

The San Diego Pride Festival isn’t just a typical party. Expect Balboa Park at maximum capacity and maximum heart with five stages, hundreds of vendors, and more joy per square foot than anywhere else in the city that weekend. 

At the heart of it all is the Stonewall Stage, the main event where legends and newcomers alike make their San Diego Pride debut. The Mundo Latino Stage brings Rock en Español, DJs, drag shows, and multicultural performers to the mix. The Movement Stage offers a full celebration of Black LGBTQIA+ arts, music, and culture through hip hop, urban contemporary, and local DJs, plus a Queer Locals Marketplace full of LGBTQ-owned small businesses selling handmade art, wellness goods, literature, community resources, and more. 

For the people who came to actually dance, the Euphoria Stage delivers electronic music and groundbreaking talent. Prism For All is where art, libraries, and history collide, with workshops, performances, and a makerspace hosted by Art of Pride, the San Diego Public Library, and Lambda Archives. And the Youth Zone gives LGBTQIA+ young people their own dedicated area to meet, get creative, play, and find support.

Who is featured on the 2026 San Diego Pride Festival lineup?

The lineup includes: 

Saturday, July 18

• Krewella

Sunday, July 19

• MARINA

Both Days 

• HAYLA
• Altégo
• Wreckno
• Haute & Freddy
• Mad Tsai
• Sam Blacky
• DJ Holographic
• Cortisa Star
• Disco Shrine
• David Harness
• Juliet Mendoza

How can I get involved?

The San Diego Pride Festival 2026 runs on the energy of over 2,000 volunteers every year. With more than 30 departments to choose from, whether you’re a people person, a behind-the-scenes organizer, or just someone who wants to do something good in a great outfit, there’s a spot with your name on it. Head to the San Diego Pride website to sign up.

When and where is the San Diego Pride Parade?

San Diego’s Pride Parade calls the parade “the region’s largest single-day civic event,” drawing more than 250,000 attendees annually. This year it takes place on Saturday, July 18 from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. and starts at University Avenue and Normal Street. Then it travels west on University Avenue, south on Sixth Avenue, and ends near Balboa Park/Quince Drive.

When and where is the San Diego Pride 5K and Walk?

The Pride 5K Run & Walk is one of the highlights of Pride Week, drawing as many as 1,700 runners and walkers from around the world and raising approximately $40,000 for charity partners San Diego Pride and The LGBT Center’s Youth Housing Project. This year it also takes place on July 18, just a bit earlier at 8 a.m., at the corner of Centre and University Ave in Hillcrest. 

What are pride donations used for?

Of course, buying a ticket is a guaranteed good time, but it’s also funding something real. San Diego Pride is a registered 501(c)(3) nonprofit, and proceeds go toward supporting organizations that host community events, programs, and fundraisers advancing pride, equality, and respect for LGBTQ+ communities locally, nationally, and globally.

That includes virtual youth programming like Pride’s Youth Leadership Academy, which reaches more than 4,000 LGBTQ children and young adults, as well as coalitions like the QAPIMEDA Coalition, Black LGBTQ Coalition, and Latinx Coalition, and more than 30 LGBTQ programs and events throughout the year. 

What items are prohibited at the San Diego Pride Festival?

The prohibited items list is lengthy (no balloons, no selfie sticks, no bubble-making devices, trust us they’ll make up for it elsewhere), but the big ones to keep in mind: clear bags only (max 12″x6″x12″), no outside food, no alcoholic beverages, no glass, no large umbrellas, and no knives or weapons of any kind. Leave the drone at home too. For the full list, head to sdpride.org/entry-policies. 

Check out San Diego Pride’s frequently asked questions page for more details.