If you walk down the stairs at Brooks Street in Laguna Beach and paddle a surfboard straight into the waves, you’ll find the rock that knocked the last baby tooth out of my head.

At high tide, it’s about 40 yards offshore and barely underwater, close enough to the surface to stand on if you’re so inclined. When the tide is low, the rock rises, with other parts of the reef, a foot or so into the air, its crags and shells softened only by a thin layer of sea grass.

I learned all about the stupid rock decades ago, when I crashed my face into it. I was 11 at the time, and teaching myself to surf (sort of; I never got great at surfing). But instead of mastering the excellent left-breaking wave at Brooks, I got a lesson in local oceanography.

Since then, as a career reporter and editor in Orange County, I’ve crashed my face, figuratively speaking, into lots of stuff.

Not old school newspaper-y stuff, per se. I’m not enough of a bar guy to have a regular watering hole, and there isn’t some diner where I hang out with supposedly wise locals. Nothing against drinking or diners or wisdom, but none of that has been critical to the world I’ve lived in. Same as you, probably.

That said, my job has brought me, face-first, into more worlds than I can remember. The list is kind of thrilling, actually.

I’ve reported from courtrooms and cop cars and Little League dugouts. I’ve parked cars outside a fancy restaurant, wrangled turkeys on a turkey farm, sold peanuts at an Angels game – all for stories. I’ve written about businesses and farms and museums. I’ve covered murders and World Series games and huge news events, like Sept. 11 and my daughter’s first day of school.

And, as a reporter, I’ve always been privileged to be part of the rabble.

I’ve hung out with quantum physicists and planet hunters; a female impersonator who sold Tupperware; a guy who jumped his motorcycle over a low-flying helicopter.

I’ve listened to everybody, or at least pretended to.

A former NASA engineer explained how much he loved the life-sized flying car he’d built (and still parked) in his living room. A sheriff’s deputy smiled joylessly as he recounted the sound of bullets thud, thud, thudding into a tree that saved his life the day he helped end a mass shooting. A homeless father looked away as he described the first time he sat on a sidewalk and asked strangers for money.

Not everybody has been so forthcoming, or happy to see me. I’ve been thrown against a fence; had a gun pointed at my face; been called Satan (incorrectly) by a lady who, otherwise, seemed nice enough.

But, no matter what you hear – no matter what I might even tell you myself someday – anger remains the outlier. Instead, people usually are shockingly kind.

A grieving mother sent me a cherry pie after a story about her deceased daughter. A reader who didn’t leave her name, or explain how she knew it was the right day, sang “Happy Birthday” into my answering machine. A guy offered box seats at an Angels game, claiming a business story had saved him a boatload of money. (Basic ethics – and the fact that I didn’t write the story – prompted me to pass.)

I’m explaining all of this for a couple reasons.

First, starting today, I’m going to write local columns in addition to my work as an editor at large with the Orange County Register and Southern California News Group.

As late 2026 jobs go, “columnist” is every bit as hip as coal miner or whale trainer. But it is fun. It also means I’ll get paid to tell you my version of our world. So it’s only fair that you know my work background well enough to trust me. Or not.

Second, familiarity with Orange County is my biggest virtue. It’s a fact, not a weird humble-brag, when I tell you that I’m not wildly clever or extra insightful. But it’s also a fact that I know this community as well as anybody. I’ve grown up here, worked here, raised a family here. I have no idea if I’ll die here, but if I do, it won’t be horrible.

I don’t always love every last inch of this place, or everything about it, or everyone who pretends to run it or develop it or sell it. But at this point Orange County is like a sibling or a kid; I can be a harsh, even unfair critic, without any question about my long-term loyalty.

The fact that I can describe streets in Laguna Beach or Irvine where some road fissures can knock you off your bike, or where sheephead and perch might bite (when you could still fish for them) off Salt Creek, or where the dust can rise in Bommer Canyon on some late summer mornings, isn’t bad. Somehow, I hope, it might even matter.

Which brings me to this: Yes, I have a bias. Many, actually; I’m a human, not a bot.

I’m biased in favor of the old-school version of our culture that values honesty and doesn’t brag.

I am biased against bullies. And whiners. And, if I’m honest, I’m a little biased against people who whine too much about being bullied.

I am definitely biased in favor of clear communication. A phrase like “my truth” confuses me, as does the word “woke” when used as a pejorative (or, frankly, in any non-alarm clock setting). Nobody, including the users, knows what these terms (and dozens of others) mean. That’s the power of using them, I guess.

I’m also biased in favor of curiosity. As well as I know some parts of the county, there’s a lot more about it I don’t know. I’m eager to learn.

And, finally, I’m biased in favor of effort. I like to work.

Except when I don’t.

If you’ve got thoughts about what I should work on, or about what I’ve already worked on, my email is in the byline.