Depending on which of the plentiful news articles you're currently reading about the California drought, San Diegans have either been really great at conserving water or not so great at conserving water.
It was sometime during the early- to mid-'80s when my mother took our kitchen down to the studs. I was between the ages of 12 and door-slamming angst, which, come to think of it, may or may not be all that temperamentally different than the me of today.
Allen Bullock had been sleeping in jail for more than a week, and not too many people seemed appropriately pissed off about it. In fact, most people I talk to about him just stand silently, blinking, blinking.
Two days after the captured-on-video murder of unarmed black man Walter Scott by white South Carolina police officer Michael Slager, my friend's black teenaged son dared to walk through his Scripps Ranch neighborhood. The nerve.
The only thing obstructing my view of the end of my daughter's fourth-grade year is the ugly last third of it. I say "ugly" because what comes with the final excruciating months is the amplified prep for, and implementation of—wait for it—standardized testing.