few year

The KnuckleHeadz may just be the thing to save America’s youth. They’re categorized too neatly as a punk band from Whittier, but they’re actually a movement: Southern California’s most raucous self-help program and hardcore band. The members are built like dockworkers and dressed like a deleted scene from “The Warriors”: black-and-green leather vests with a spiky-haired skull back patch. They are also the driving force behind the Punk Rock Fight Club, a Southern California-based organization dedicated to improving young men’s lives through fitness and structure. The rules are as strict as they are simple, and in this topsy-turvy world, truly radical: no hard drugs, no crime, no racists, no abusers. Respect yourself, your brothers and your community.

The KnuckleHeadz achieved a moment of internet fame after hosting a completely unsanctioned show in an unsuspecting McDonald’s for a hundred people. The viral clip of the show is the convenient entry point, but it sells short what the gentlemen have built. Onstage, the KnuckleHeadz are all sweat and spectacle: profanity-laced breakdowns, fans crowd surfing on boogie boards riding a human tide, and the green-and-black army in the pit pulling strangers upright. The absurdity of a fast-food slam pit, bodies and burgers briefly airborne — suggests anarchy. Look closer and you see choreography: Men catching falls, clearing space and enforcing a code. Punk has always promised salvation by noise. The KnuckleHeadz add a footnote: Salvation requires reps, rules and someone mean enough to care. Offstage, they run an infrastructure for staying alive.

The KnuckleHeadz in Whittier

(Dick Slaughter)

Founded in June 2021 by frontman Thomas Telles of Whittier, better known as Knucklehead Tom, and with the help of guitarist and tattooer Steven Arceo, aka Saus, of El Monte, the Punk Rock Fight Club (PRFC) has grown in a few years to six chapters and more than 200 members across Southern California. What started as a tight circle around a band hardened into a movement: discipline for kids who never got it, structure for men who need it, and a community without substance abuse . Prospects earn their way through mornings, sweat and commitment before they’re trusted with the skull back patch. The rules read like a brick wall and function like a doorway.

“I started the club because I wanted to do good in the scene,” Knucklehead Tom said “I wanted to create a tribe where we all supported each other, a family for people from all walks of life, especially those who came from broken homes. I wanted people to know they have somewhere to go and a family they can count on.”

Knucklehead Tom of The KnuckleHeadz puts his mic in to the crowd while performing with the band from Whittier.

(Dick Slaughter)

I first ran into the KnuckleHeadz and a few club members by accident three years ago in a London train station en route to the Rebellion Punk Rock Music Festival in Blackpool, a yearly event featuring more than 300 veteran and emerging bands. They were impossible to miss — part wolf pack, part brotherhood, pure energy. That year the KnuckleHeadz struck a chord with me, not just through their all-in, no-holds-barred performances, but also through their message, their obvious love for one another and their mission to better their community. Since then, I have taken a hard look inside both the band and the club; I visited their gym and attended many of their shows. I have met and talked with families and those the KnuckleHeadz and the club have helped. They have indeed, in many cases, worked miracles. But the guys don’t call them miracles. They call it Tuesday.

“Since we founded Punk Rock Fight Club, we paved way for what we knew was the movement and lifestyle many people in our scene needed,” Arceo said. “We’ve changed so many lives and with that our lives changed as well. We made a family built on brotherhood, loyalty with the camaraderie that can only be achieved through martial arts and punk rock. That’s something many of us grew up without. So to be able to bring this into the world is worth every sacrifice. We’re going on five years strong and will keep going till the day we die.”

The band’s ascent mirrors the spread of the club: a steady climb from underground slots to punk’s biggest stages. They earned a place on the final NOFX show and graduated from Rebellion’s side stage to the festival’s main stage. They’ve organized benefits for causes that don’t trend and for people who can’t afford to be causes. The Punk Rock Museum in Las Vegas recently added a piece of PRFC memorabilia, one of the club’s cuts — a leather vest with the skull back patch — to its collection, a true museum piece that still smells faintly of sweat. Next, KnuckleHeadz prepare for a U.S. run with punk legends GBH, the sort of tour that turns rumor into résumé.

Saus, co-founder of the KnuckleHeadz, wearing the band’s signature vest.

The Whittier dojo, KnuckleHead Martial Arts, is where the KnuckleHeadz code gets practical. It’s where guys run martial arts drills and where the mats serve double duty as community center flooring. During the band’s “F Cancer” benefit for 17-year-old Cesar “Little Cesar” Lopez II, the driveway became an impromptu slam pit. Inside, kids tumbled on the mats while guitars shook the walls. Families brought food, local businesses donated services, and more than $6,000 went toward treatments. In the carnival-like atmosphere outside, Little Cesar grinned and hyped the pit from the sideline, proving that joy, like violence, can be contagious.

One member, Bernard Schindler, 55, of La Mirada, came in after a life of ricochets: rehab, prison, relapse, repeat. The club gave him a schedule first and a future second, and now with the support of the club, he’s been clean and sober for more than two years.

Saus performing with the KnuckleHeadz during a Punk Rock Fight Club benefit show outside the KnuckleHeadz gym in Whittier.

(Dick Slaughter)

“Tom and the Punk Rock Fight Club completely turned my life around,” Schindler said. “It gave me purpose, discipline and a new family of brothers that push me to be better. I went from being a broken down drug addict to the healthiest I’ve ever been mentally, physically and emotionally in the 55 years I’ve been alive.”

Since getting involved with the KnuckleHeadz nearly three years ago, Schindler says he’s gotten closer to his family, including his three sons and his girlfriend, in addition to staying sober. “I can honestly say that I couldn’t have done it without Tom and our God-given club, the Punk Rock Fight Club,” he said.

The bassist known as Knucklehead Randy performs while riding on the shoulders of a fellow club member at a benefit show in Whittier.

(Dick Slaughter)

The PRFC trophy case is full of medals and awards, sure, but the real accomplishments are much quieter and miraculous. There are pay stubs where rap sheets used to be, text threads that start with the question “You good?” at 3:17 a.m., and apartment keys handed over when a kid can’t go home.

Hip-hop synth-punk artist N8NOFACE, now a fixture on lineups from the annual L.A. festival Cruel World tours with Limp Bizkit and Corey Feldman, calls Tom “my brother” and credits that code with keeping him aligned. “I was getting clean, and I’ve always believed that if you follow the right people, it helps you stay on your path,” N8 says. “Tom was about health, about not getting all messed up, about being a fighter and a warrior and taking care of your body first. To find that in punk was very different.”

When asked about his hopes for the future of the band, Tom says, “I just want to keep having fun. We love doing it and are grateful for all the love and support.“ The band is currently playing shows across SoCal with gutter punk legends GBH, including a show Friday at the Ventura Music Hall.

“With the club, I want to keep changing lives. It makes me happy to know that my son Nieko has an army of goodhearted uncles if anything were to happen to me. The righteous men in this club make me so proud.”

That’s the trick. That’s the point. In the noise between those truths, a lot of young men hear something they’ve never believed before: a future they’re allowed to keep.

Slaughter is a photographer and writer who has covered music and culture for countless outlets, including the OC Weekly and L.A. Times. He is a founding member of In Spite Magazine.

PARADISE, Calif. — When Jen Goodlin visited Paradise six months after the 2018 Camp fire, she thought she was saying goodbye.

A town native, Goodlin was living in Colorado with her husband and four children. She wanted to witness the devastation that wiped out 10,700 homes, including the small white cottage where she grew up, and turned the dense forest of her youth into a bleak landscape. But once she arrived, she was surprised at her reaction. She could envision so much more than the burned trees and abandoned businesses around her.

Here, she saw, her family could live on a big piece of land as they’d always wanted. Her husband thought she was crazy, but they ran the numbers, bought a 1.2-acre vacant lot and put a trailer on the property. A few years later, they moved into a new, four-bedroom house.

“It took the fire to bring me home,” said Goodlin, 43, who now runs a local wildfire recovery nonprofit.

Jen Goodlin, executive director of the Rebuild Paradise Foundation, in Paradise, Calif., in June 2024.

(Nic Coury / Associated Press)

Young families like Goodlin’s are coming to Paradise, shifting the town’s demographics away from the retirees who once lived there. Attracted by cheap land — lots cost less than a mid-range car— newcomers can build a larger home on larger parcels for less than buying a house in Chico, a city of 100,000 people 15 miles away.

Though Paradise’s current population is less than half of what it was, the local Little League already has more kids than before the fire.

Nearly a decade of megafire in California has brought profound changes to recovering communities. Paradise has become younger. Some rebuilt areas have become wealthier. Renters and people on fixed incomes have found themselves pushed to more urban locales. Both devastated neighborhoods and fire survivors face an unpredictable future that, given the recent intensity of wildfires in California, many more areas will have to face.

Reminders of fire are inescapable in Paradise, from the roadside signposts that designate evacuation routes to the alarm that blares at noon on the 15th of every month, a test of the system that will tell everyone if they need to flee once again. At the same time, the activity in the town belies the desolation implied by building data that show only 30% of destroyed homes have been replaced. Dog walkers and parents with small children play in refurbished parks. At lunchtime, construction workers in reflective vests gather around taco trucks.

A deer treks over an empty lot as homes continue to be built throughout Paradise years after the Camp fire.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Local boosters tout that for every year after the fire, Paradise has been one of the fastest-growing communities in California. Another half-dozen homes are being rebuilt each month, according to a Times data analysis.

But as shown in Paradise, the statistics tell only part of the story. The Times found that of the nearly 22,500 homes lost in the Camp fire and California’s four other most destructive wildfires from 2017 to 2020, just 8,400, or 38%, have been rebuilt.

Given the time that has already passed, it’s unlikely that some places — the forests below the northern Sierra Nevada, parts of the Santa Monica Mountains, pieces of old Shasta County mining towns — ever will have the same number of homes as before. In Paradise, it’s essentially guaranteed. Many returning homeowners purchased their neighbors’ burned out lots to build a larger house or simply expand the size of their property.

Instead of simply repopulating these areas, there has been a subtle shift toward living in more urban communities, especially for renters or homeowners who couldn’t afford to rebuild. In Butte County, disaster relief dollars from both the Camp fire and North Complex fire, which destroyed 1,500 homes in even more rural areas two years later, have been funneled toward affordable housing projects largely in Chico and smaller nearby cities untouched by the blazes. Not one such development has been proposed in the North Complex burn scar.

The rationale is straightforward: More people can be housed more safely and sustainably in cities than in mountainous, fire-prone tracts with little public infrastructure. The urban developments also provide access to grocery stores, public transit and other amenities that give them a higher chance of winning state financing competitions and being completed.

Local officials welcome the investments but feel uneasy about what’s happening. Katie Simmons, deputy chief administrative officer overseeing recovery efforts for Butte County, said many rural fire survivors don’t want to move to the city. She called the new developments “displacement housing” that doesn’t address the needs of those in remote areas who continue to “flounder in disaster-caused homelessness.”

As time wears on, fewer and fewer people find themselves in positions to return, sometimes despite extraordinary efforts to allow them to do so.

Palm trees rising over the vacant lot in November 2020 where Journey’s End Trailer Park once stood in Santa Rosa.

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

In Santa Rosa, the 2017 Tubbs fire wiped out Journey’s End, a 162-space mobile home park next to a hospital and the 101 Freeway. A partnership between the landowner, the city and for- and nonprofit developers led to plans for more than 400 apartments on the site, including full replacement of 162 units for low-income seniors.

But it wasn’t until summer 2023 that the first apartments opened. Journey’s End residents, so long as they qualified under the age and income restrictions, could return if they wanted.

Few did. About three dozen expressed interest, 12 initially moved in, six of whom remain.

A lot of her former neighbors from the mobile home park died waiting, said Pat Crisco, 75, one of the Journey’s End residents who came back. Others didn’t want to live in apartments. More had settled elsewhere and didn’t want to uproot themselves again, she said.

Pat Crisco is a former resident of the Journey’s End mobile home park that burned in the Tubbs fire. Crisco is now living in the affordable housing apartment development that was built on the site.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

The stray cats Crisco used to feed at Journey’s End are gone and when the hot wind blows outside her apartment building she gets the “heebie jeebies.” But she feels great about her decision to return. The location is close to the bus, her doctors and grocery stores.

“This is brand spanking new,” Crisco said. “And everything is very convenient.”

Research shows that communities that rebuild more fully tend to end up wealthier than they used to be. Homeowners who come back are the ones able to afford to navigate the process, and brand-new houses in established areas attract outsiders.

Before the Tubbs fire, Santa Rosa’s Coffey Park subdivision was middle-class, with its tract homes routinely going for around $500,000. Nearly all the 1,300 houses lost have been rebuilt. Residents were astounded recently when they began selling at more than $1 million.

Jeff Okrepkie, 46, a Coffey Park renter who used his insurance payout as a down payment for a new home on his old street, said it’s undeniable that the neighborhood is more upscale now, with amenities hard to find elsewhere.

“This is the cliche, Americana, suburban single-family-detached homes,” Okrepkie said. “It’s 1980s-style lots, 1980s-style streets with 2020s-style houses.”

Jeff Okrepkie outside his rebuilt home, second from left, in the Coffey Park neighborhood of Santa Rosa.

(Eric Risberg / Associated Press)

What’s happening in Paradise and Santa Rosa provide continually evolving answers to weighty questions: When has a community recovered? And what does recovery even mean?

In 2019, Paradise received a $270-million settlement from Pacific Gas & Electric, whose power lines caused the Camp fire. The town is using the money to backfill lost tax revenue. But it won’t last forever.

That’s why local leaders are pushing for a new sewer system as part of an expanded town center to attract restaurants and business that would make more young families want to live there. The lack of one limited the commercial district in the past.

For Paradise officials, recovery is when the community can sustain itself once again.

“It looks like it’s going to serve us for 25 years,” said Colette Curtis, the town’s recovery and economic development director, of the PG&E settlement.

Some residents of communities reshaped by fire have found themselves both drawn and repelled by the place they call home.

Roger and Lindy Brown lived in Paradise with their daughter before the fire and their home burned. Their daughter went to Chico State, and Roger and Lindy moved to Oregon. Roger and Lindy moved back to a rebuilt home near their old one a couple of years ago.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Roger and Lindy Brown had lived in Paradise for 12 years when the Camp fire struck. After the blaze, the Browns rented an apartment in Chico so their daughter could finish her last year at Paradise High School, which held classes in a mall and then a warehouse in Chico.

Roger, 60, worked in heating and air conditioning and had to return to the town often. He couldn’t take seeing the burned-out trees, cars and homes. The couple took their insurance money and moved to a small town in Oregon. From a distance, the upkeep on their vacant lot proved to be too much so they sold that too.

But Paradise pulled at them, especially Lindy, 66. Their daughter never left, attending Chico State, where she recently graduated. Some of their friends had rebuilt. To her, Oregon felt lonely. Paradise, she said, was their community.

Tom and Diane Boatright built back their home in the second-fastest time after the Camp fire using a modular homebuilding company.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Last year, Roger and Lindy bought a house in Paradise, a newly built, blue, two-bedroom with a white picket fence. The home had all they wanted. Solar power. A large lot. Apple, cherry and peach trees in the back. And they were overwhelmed with the thought of starting from scratch.

They’ve kept a Little Free Library on their lawn stocked with books. In the spring, they traded their extra peaches for eggs from their neighbor’s chickens.

On a recent weekday afternoon, Roger and Lindy stood in their frontyard admiring the finishing touches on their only major construction project. They were replacing some of the landscaping with gravel, a decision that made their home more fire-resistant and cut their insurance costs in half.

Roger still felt unsure about returning. Before the fire, he would go to breakfast with the town’s classic car club every Saturday. The 1971 Chevy Nova Roger had restored was lost in the blaze and the car club was no more.

“It’s never going to be the Paradise it was,” Roger said to Lindy.

His wife turned to him. “It doesn’t have to be,” she said.

There are times when you want a vacation that challenges you. But there are other times when you crave a familiar scene, a traveler’s version of comfort food.

What is it that brings people back to the same destination again and again?

Charlotte Russell, a Manchester-based clinical psychologist and founder/editor of the Travel Psychologist blog, didn’t see value in visiting the same place twice when she was in her 20s, but as she got older, her opinion changed.

Now one of her most frequent destinations is Seville, a short, direct flight from her home airport. However, her travel cadence is strategic. “I don’t want to spoil the connection I have to the place by visiting too frequently,” she says. “For me, once every few years seems to be about ‘right.’” Once there, she savors “the beautiful buildings, the orange trees, the smells and flavors of the food,” enjoying the chance to get to know the culture more deeply than a one-time visitor might.

Then again, Russell acknowledges, maybe we can never truly visit the same place twice.

So says psychology professor Andrew Stevenson in his 2023 book “The Psychology of Travel.” In his view, “places change all the time, and so do we. Yes, we can visit the same location again, but are likely to experience it in a completely different way when visiting again, as the place becomes more meaningful, more full of memories, more vital, each new time we arrive.”

We asked Southern California readers to tell us about their most prized repeat destinations. The answers took us all over — Hawaii, Utah, Arizona, England and Hermosa Beach, for instance — for all sorts of reasons they share with us below.

As a young man, he stood next to Martin Luther King Jr. as he delivered his “I Have A Dream” speech. As a college basketball coach, he blazed a trail for Black coaches and players. As an executive, he was instrumental in signing Michael Jordan to his groundbreaking endorsement deal with Nike.

George Raveling had an impact that stretched far beyond basketball, the sport which he last coached three decades ago at USC. He became a revered figure in the game, not for the number of wins he accumulated over his career, but for his role as a mentor to many.

Raveling, 88, died Monday after a battle with cancer, his family announced.

“There are no words to fully capture what George meant to his family, friends, colleagues, former players, and assistants — and to the world,” the family said in a statement. “He will be profoundly missed, yet his aura, energy, divine presence, and timeless wisdom live on in all those he touched and transformed.”

Raveling coached at USC from 1986 to 1994, the first Black coach to take the helm of the Trojans basketball program. Over his first four seasons at the school, Raveling didn’t experience much success, winning just 38 of USC’s 116 games over that stretch.

Raveling found his stride in the second half of his tenure, taking the Trojans to two straight NCAA tournaments and two NITs after that. But his overall record at USC never broke .500 (115-118). In September 1994, Raveling was in a serious car accident that eventually led him to retire. He suffered nine broken ribs and a collapsed lung and fractured his pelvis and collarbone.

After his coaching career, Raveling joined Nike as the director of grassroots basketball, later rising to the role of director of international basketball.

But his biggest contribution at Nike came out of his relationship with Jordan, whom Raveling had coached as an assistant with the U.S. national team at the 1984 Olympics. Jordan, whose deal with Nike sent the brand into a new stratosphere, credited Raveling for making it happen. In the foreword for Raveling’s book, Jordan called him “a mentor”.

“If not for George, there would be no Air Jordan,” Jordan wrote.

Across the basketball world, similar plaudits came pouring in Tuesday in light of Raveling’s death.

Eric Musselman, USC’s current basketball coach, said Raveling was “not only a Hall of Fame basketball mind but a tremendous person who paved the way on and off the court.”

Former Villanova coach Jay Wright wrote on social media that Raveling was “the finest human being, inspiring mentor, most loyal alum and a thoughtful loving friend.”

Raveling grew up in Washington D.C., during a time of segregation and hardship. His family lived in a two-room apartment above a grocery store, where they shared a bathroom with four other families on the same floor. His father died suddenly when he was 9. His mother suffered a mental health crisis a few years later and spent most of her remaining years in a psychiatric hospital. Raveling left home at 14 to attend a boarding school.

It was at St. Michaels, a mostly white boarding school in Pennsylvania, that Raveling first started playing basketball. He earned a scholarship at Villanova, where he became a captain and later an assistant coach.

But the college experience, he later said, had an even more profound impact on Raveling.

“I’ve always felt like a sprinter who’d slipped at the starting box and was 20 yards behind everybody — I’ve been in a mad dash to catch up with everybody ever since,” Raveling told The Times in 1994. “My mom worked two jobs when I was a kid. There were no books in our house. Nobody envisioned that I’d graduate from college. No one even encouraged me to go to college.”

He’d spend the rest of his life, it seems, trying to make up for lost time.

Raveling was standing just a few feet away from King on the National Mall in Washington D.C. in 1963 as he delivered his famed “I Have A Dream” speech. King actually handed Raveling his copy of the historic speech immediately after he finished.

For decades, Raveling kept it tucked inside of a book, before recounting the story to a journalist. According to Sports Illustrated, a collector later offered Raveling $3 million for his copy of the speech. But he declined and donated it instead to Villanova.

George Raveling was inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Mass., in 2015.

(Charles Krupa / Associated Press)

Raveling pioneered a path that few Black coaches ever had through his career. He was the first Black coach in the history of the Atlantic Coast Conference when he started as an assistant in 1969. Three years later, at Washington State, he became the first Black coach to lead a Pac-8 (now Pac-12) Conference basketball team.

He coached at Iowa from 1983-86 before being hired at USC. At the time, the Trojans had a roster that included Hank Gathers and Bo Kimble, who were coming off their freshman season. Raveling gave the players a firm deadline to tell him if they planned to remain on the team and when they didn’t he revoked their scholarships. Both went on to star at Loyola Marymount.

Raveling was inducted into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame in 2015. But as a “contributor”, not as a coach. Even while he was coaching, Raveling seemed to understand that his role meant more than that.

“Winning basketball games just helps you keep your job,” he told The Times in 1994. “But keeping your job helps you work with these kids about the real challenges of life, which all happen away from the court. I know there’s an enormous demand around here to win. But I don’t want someone to ask me what I accomplished in my life and for me to say that I won this amount of games or took a team to some tournament.

“If all I can say is that I taught a kid how to shoot a jump shot, well, that’s not good enough. These kids come out of underprivileged, inner-city areas, and I’m just wasting my time if I haven’t put something of substance into their lives.”