friend

BBC Breakfast announced the death of acclaimed playwright Tom Stoppard at age 88, sharing tributes from King Charles and Queen Camilla

BBC Breakfast was paused as today’s presenter delivered devastating news of a death just minutes into the programme.

During Sunday’s (November 30) episode of the beloved breakfast show, hosts Rachel Burden and Ben Boulos were back on our screens delivering the day’s top headlines from Britain and around the world.

But mere moments into the broadcast, Rachel broke the news of Tom Stoppard‘s passing as she disclosed that the Royal Family were amongst the first to honour his memory.

The cherished playwright, who scooped an Oscar and a Golden Globe for Shakespeare In Love, was 88-years-old when he passed away.

Addressing audiences at home, Rachel announced: “The King and Queen have led tributes to the playwright Tom Stoppard, who has died at the age 88.”, reports the Express.

“They have described him as a ‘dear friend who wore his genius lightly’. Among the awards was an Oscar for the screenplay for the film Shakespeare in Love.”

The programme then switched to a dedicated tribute segment for the legend as entertainment correspondent Guy Lambert reflected on Tom’s extraordinary career.

Returning to the studio, Rachel noted: “Tributes have been pouring in to celebrate the life of Sir Tom Stoppard.”

Just before sharing the King and Queen’s complete statement, the television host remarked: “King Charles and Queen Camilla called him a dear friend.”

United Agents released a statement at the time, expressing: “We are deeply saddened to announce that our beloved client and friend, Tom Stoppard, has died peacefully at home in Dorset, surrounded by his family.

“He will be remembered for his works, for their brilliance and humanity, and for his wit, his irreverence, his generosity of spirit and his profound love of the English language. It was an honour to work with Tom and to know him.”

King Charles paid tribute, stating: “My wife and I are deeply saddened to learn of the death of one of our greatest writers, Sir Tom Stoppard. A dear friend who wore his genius lightly, he could, and did, turn his pen to any subject, challenging, moving and inspiring his audiences, borne from his own personal history.

“We send our most heartfelt sympathy to his beloved family. Let us all take comfort in his immortal line: ‘Look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else’.”

Sir Tom’s illustrious career in entertainment spanned over six decades, during which he bagged numerous Tony and Olivier awards, as well as the Golden Globe and Academy Award alongside Marc Norman for their 1998 screenplay Shakespeare In Love – featuring fellow Oscar-winner Gwyneth Paltrow.

BBC Breakfast is broadcast daily from 6am on BBC One and iPlayer.

The nostalgia hit Ross Niederhaus in the grocery store as he stocked up for what might be his last Rose Bowl tailgate.

This has been nearly a lifelong tradition for the native of Linda Vista, starting in 2005 when he was 8 years old and UCLA romped over Oregon State. When he got his driver’s license in 2012, Niderhaus started throwing his own tailgates, bringing chicken-in-a-biscuit crackers because he couldn’t afford fancier fare.

He was back Saturday afternoon underneath a tent on the grass in Lot H, wearing his favorite No. 2 Eric McNeal jersey, possibly here for the last time as the Bruins contemplate whether they will remain at the place they have called home since 1982 or move to SoFi Stadium for the 2026 season.

“I wish we knew whether or not this was the last time,” Niederhaus said, “because if this was the last time for sure I could at least be saying my goodbyes to my favorite tradition. This is my favorite thing to do. My ashes are willed to be spread at the Rose Bowl.”

UCLA fan Ray Hoit sets up a tent while tailgating at the Rose Bowl before Saturday’s game against Washington.

(Eric Thayer / Los Angeles Times)

On the other side of the stadium, on the sprawling Brookside Golf Course, Nicholaus Iamaleava was prepping his pregame tailgate below four tents alongside his brother Matt, the siblings expecting about 60 family members to indulge in a potluck spread of burgers, hot dogs, wings, fries, hot links, sushi and fried rice.

Both brothers were hoping for more tailgates to come outside the century-old stadium. But just in case, they were preparing for the alternative.

“Today, we’re going to go in early,” said Nicholaus Iamaleava, the father of the UCLA starting quarterback by the same name. “Normally we go in right before kickoff but this time, we’re going to go in and soak it all in, man. It might be the last game, right, so we want to enjoy every bit of it and just hang out.”

Matt Iamaleava said he didn’t think moving to SoFi Stadium would solve the attendance issues plaguing the Bruins at their longtime home.

UCLA fan Nathan Nguyen sets up while tailgating outside the Rose Bowl on Saturday.

(Eric Thayer / Los Angeles Times)

“There’s nothing like playing at the Rose Bowl,” Iamaleava said. “Hopefully, it works itself out.”

Added Nicholaus Iamaleava: “We’re praying on it. That would be great.”

Nearly 6½ hours before UCLA’s kickoff against Washington, Jamie Hickcox-Baker and Dee Fitzgerald-Cardello lugged a table across the pavement in Lot K, having already unfurled a couple of folding chairs. The UCLA graduates were awaiting the arrival of a massive ice sculpture that would hold margaritas for their group of 25 friends.

“I’m very sad because I live in Altadena and so this is in my backyard and I just hate to see it leave,” Fitzgerald-Cardello said. “It’s just such a tradition. I’m very saddened by it.”

Even though she’s been making the drive from Fresno to tailgate at the Rose Bowl since 1993, Hickcox-Baker was less wistful about a possible move to SoFi Stadium.

UCLA fan Leki Manu throws a football outside the Rose Bowl before Saturday’s game against Washington.

(Eric Thayer / Los Angeles Times)

“I kind of feel like we can talk tradition all we want,” Hickcox-Baker said, “but we left the Pac-12 and the Pac-12 is no longer, so if there’s no tradition in the Rose Bowl game anymore, think about how college football has evolved. I’ve been to a few games at SoFi, it’s a beautiful stadium. The last few years, because our team hasn’t been doing well, we’re stuck in that 100-degree temperature [at the Rose Bowl] and nobody’s coming to the games.”

Back in Lot H, the scene took on the feel of a state fair. The smell of burgers, brats and other grilled delicacies wafted through the air as children played football on the grass and a nearby patch of dirt. One kid kicked a football, commencing a mad scramble as a group of friends converged on the object of their delight.

“This is one of the reasons why people come now,” longtime fan John Anderson said, “is to be here with friends and be able to run around and throw a ball and stuff and if that can’t happen at SoFi, I think it will be a shame. So I don’t think they’re going to get the draw that they think they’re going to get — maybe a little bump for a couple of games and that’s it.”

UCLA fans tailgate before Saturday’s game at the Rose Bowl between UCLA and Washington.

(Eric Thayer / Los Angeles Times)

Anderson said he missed one home UCLA football game over the last 16 years, and that was to attend a wedding. And if the Bruins move to SoFi?

“I’ll go to a game or two,” Anderson said. “It really depends on what the pricing looks like.”

Neiderhaus said he always would support the Bruins while conceding he might be in the minority.

“I’ll be there,” Niederhaus said, “but I know a lot of people that won’t — a lot of people I know who are season-ticket holders said they’re not coming back, which I think is a big issue that UCLA needs to be acknowledging throughout all of this. A lot of die-hards care about the Rose Bowl just as much as they care about Bruin football, so who knows” how attendance will go.

“Wow!”

The performance needed no evaluation beyond the exclamation. Kurt Suzuki bounded out of the visiting clubhouse at Angel Stadium to catch up with his friend.

In 2009, in the first start of his first full major league season, the Angels’ pitcher threw six shutout innings against Suzuki and the Oakland Athletics. On Team USA, Suzuki had been his catcher.

Suzuki congratulated the pitcher, shared the exclamation and — because this is what friends do — gave him a hard time.

Before the sun rose, Nick Adenhart was dead. He was 22.

“I woke up the next morning to 10 text messages you don’t want to hear,” Suzuki said.

A drunk driver had blown through a red light and into a minivan full of friends. He killed three of them, including Adenhart. One survived: Jon Wilhite, who played baseball at Cal State Fullerton with Suzuki.

Sixteen years later, a forever bond endures between Wilhite and Suzuki. When the Angels introduced Suzuki as their new manager last month, Wilhite was in the audience.

Their friendship is compelling. Their story is poignant. We’ll get to it, but first Suzuki ribs Wilhite for wearing long pants on a sunny autumn day in Manhattan Beach. Suzuki is wearing shorts and flip-flops.

“We’re by the beach, dude,” Suzuki laughs.

Suzuki eggs on Wilhite: Tell the story about the white suit.

In 2004, Fullerton won the College World Series, with Suzuki as the All-America catcher and Wilhite as a redshirt catcher. In 2005, the Titans visited the White House.

“I didn’t own a suit,” Wilhite said. “I went to the Men’s Wearhouse in Hawthorne, just by myself, and this guy sold me on a white suit.”

New Angels manager Kurt Suzuki, left, and general manager Perry Minasian speak to reporters at Angel Stadium last month. Jon Wilhite was in the audience.

(Greg Beacham / Associated Press)

On the day of the White House visit, his teammates thought the white suit was a joke. Dear reader, it was not.

Wilhite stood in line with his teammates, waiting to meet President George W. Bush. As the president shook Wilhite’s hand, he took a look at the suit and deadpanned: “Bold move, son.”

Fullerton has won four College World Series championships, more than any other school besides USC, Louisiana State, Texas and Arizona State — elite by any standard, but frankly amazing given the Titans’ status as a financially challenged athletic program at a commuter school. The players believed in themselves, because they could not count on anyone else to believe in them.

“It was like a brotherhood,” Suzuki said.

That drunk driver very nearly killed Wilhite, too. You can get chills just by saying out loud the medical term for what happened to him: internal decapitation.

UC Irvine surgeons put his skull back atop his spine. At the time, UCI reported, only four other people were known to have recovered from that injury.

Wilhite was in the hospital for weeks, in rehabilitation for months. Suzuki, then in his second full major league season, raised more than $50,000 for Wilhite’s recovery fund by tapping veterans for baseball memorabilia that could be sold or auctioned.

“Luckily, with the money raised, I was able to take a year and get myself physically as good as I could be,” Wilhite said, “before I went back to work.”

That money was not the most valuable contribution Suzuki made toward Wilhite’s healing.

When Wilhite finished his rehabilitation program, Suzuki was back in Southern California, in the midst of offseason workouts.

Hey, he told Wilhite, come work out with me.

“This is a guy that’s a professional athlete getting ready for his next year,” Wilhite said, “and I was struggling to walk.

“I showed up every single day, and I got stronger. That’s when I really made strides. I wasn’t just a patient. I felt like an athlete again.”

Even in those worst of times, Suzuki was not above ribbing Wilhite. For both of them, it felt, well, normal.

“He was still getting his balance back,” Suzuki said. “I’m like, come on dude, don’t go falling on me or everybody’s going to be looking at us!”

Suzuki could have made a modest donation to Wilhite’s recovery fund. That would have been a lovely gesture.

Angels manager Kurt Suzuki, left, and Jon Wilhite were teammates at Cal State Fullerton. “Would you just write your family member a check? No, you’re going to be there for him,” Suzuki said of how he’s supported Wilhite since the accident.

(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)

For Suzuki, that would not have been enough. The Titans were family, and to this day he remembers that Wilhite’s father attended practice just about every day, sitting in the front row, wearing that trademark white bucket hat.

“Would you just write your family member a check?” Suzuki said. “No, you’re going to be there for him.”

The Angels honor their best pitcher each year with the Nick Adenhart Award. Suzuki can present it now, and share his memories of Adenhart. Perhaps Wilhite could join Suzuki.

If he were to do that, he would want to make sure to share his memories of the other victims, too: Courtney Stewart, 20, a Fullerton classmate he described as smart, fun, and not at all scared to tease her ballplayer friends about their play; and Henry Pearson, 25, a law student and aspiring sports agent who Wilhite said never took a moment for granted.

We met at Marine Park in Manhattan Beach, where Pearson and Wilhite played youth baseball, and where a memorial reads: “On April 9, 2009, Henry Pearson, Courtney Stewart and Nick Adenhart were killed by a drunk driver. Jon Wilhite miraculously survived and recovered. They remain an inspiration to us all.”

Some days more than others, Wilhite feels the miracle of survival, of prayer, of modern medicine. I asked him how he explains what happened to people who don’t already know.

“I usually don’t like to drop that bomb on people,” he said. “I usually try to be vague.”

He knows he is the lucky one. He tries to remember that every day, but his mind never drifts far from the others.

“Three of the best people I know lost their life for a senseless act,” he said, “people with such promise.”

Thanksgiving is upon us, so I asked Wilhite if anything came out of this horrific tragedy for which he can be thankful.

He paused. The grief might never fully pass. He was not about to force an answer.

But, after a minute or so, he talked of the relationships he had built with the families of Adenhart, Pearson and Stewart, and the baseball community that supported him, and the close friends who stepped up to help him in his time of need.

“Like Kurt,” he said.

MILLIE Mackintosh has posted about ‘lies and delusion’ after a mystery feud and fall out with her former friend. 

The star has dumped her long-term manager Donna Rooney, who is also a close friend and godmother to her two children, it’s been reported. 

And now, the 36-year-old has taken to social media to share a cryptic quote with her legion of fans. 

It read: “Sometimes you just have to let people be… 

“Be who they are, do what they do, act how they act, say what they say.

“Let them live their version of reality. Let them sit with their lies and delusion while you sit with the truth in peace.” 

Read More on Millie Mackintosh

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According to insiders, Millie is desperate to cut ties with Made In Chelsea – the show that made her famous – and move away from being known as a former reality star. 

As a result Millie – who shares Sienna, five, and three-year-old Aurelia with husband Hugo Taylor – has decided to make a fresh start and sign with YMU, the home of stars including Ant and Dec and Claudia Winkleman. 

It’s thought that Donna has been left “deeply upset” by what she allegedly feels is a “betrayal” from Millie. 

A source told the Daily Mail: “Millie has become increasingly disenchanted with still being known as an ‘ex Made In Chelsea star.’ 

“Whatever venture she tips her toes into, the label seems to follow her everywhere – and she’s had enough.

“The show made her name, but she hasn’t appeared on it for over a decade and to her, it feels like another life.

“So, in order to finally make a clean break from it, she made the difficult decision to part with Donna.

“They have been friends for over a decade, Donna is the godmother to Millie’s children, they have holidayed together for years, and share countless memories.”

Sources also claim that Millie has added to the snub by unfollowing Donna on Instagram. 

The Sun has reached out to Millie’s reps for comment.

The technologist and professor Mindy Seu was having drinks when her friend casually referred to the phone as a sex toy. Think about it, her friend, Melanie Hoff, explained: We send nudes or watch porn, it’s vibrating and touch-sensitive — it’s practically an appendage.

“What exactly is sex, and what exactly is technology?” Seu wondered. “Neither can be cleanly defined.”

Around the same time, in 2023, Seu had just published “Cyberfeminism Index,” a viral Google Sheet-turned-Brat-green-doorstopper from Inventory Press. Critics and digital subcultures embraced the niche volume like a manifesto — and a marker of Seu’s arrival as a public intellectual whose archiving was itself a form of activism. The cool design didn’t hurt. “If you’re a woman who owns a pair of Tabis or Miistas, you are going to have this tome,” joked comedian Brian Park on his culture podcast “Middlebrow.”

Still, the knot between sexuality and technology tugged at her. “Recently, my practice has evolved toward technology-driven performance and publication,” she said. “It’s not exactly traditional performance art, but I believe that spaces like lectures and readings can be made performative.” Though she wasn’t yet finished exploring this theme, she wasn’t sure how to approach it next — until an experiment by Julio Correa, a former Yale graduate student, sparked an idea. Correa had devised an Instagram Stories-based lecture format, and she immediately saw its potential. She reached out to ask if she could “manipulate” his idea into a performance piece, and would he like to collaborate?

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Thus, “A Sexual History of the Internet” was born. The work is two things at once: a participatory lecture-performance conducted through the audience’s phones, and an accompanying, palm-sized, 700-plus-page “script” examining how our devices serve as bodily extensions.

The book isn’t exhaustive but instead a curated miscellany of non-sequiturs and the kind of dinner-party lore Seu delights in. Did you know that the anatomical structure of the clitoris wasn’t fully mapped until a decade after the invention of the World Wide Web? Or that the first JPEG — introduced in 1992 at USC — cribbed a Playboy centerfold nicknamed “Lenna,” which journalist and the author of the 2018 “Brotopia” Emily Chang called “tech’s original sin.”

The metaverse, web3 and AI — none of this is new, Seu said in her loft this past Saturday, hours before her West Coast debut at the Geffen Contemporary at MOCA. “But understanding the arc is helpful, especially how it’s tied to militaristic origins rooted in power, and how those same people were also confronted with sexuality.”

She’s just returned from a whirlwind tour — Antwerp, New York, Oslo, Madrid — with Tokyo next month. She splits her time between L.A. and Berlin, where her boyfriend lives, but for now, she’s staying put in what she calls her “bachelor pad on the set of a ‘90s erotic thriller,” inherited from a friend, the artist Isabelle Albuquerque.

The floor-to-ceiling windows high in a historic Brutalist artists’ complex overlook MacArthur Park and the downtown skyline. She’s offset the building’s cement with a childhood baby grand piano and her grandmother’s lacquer vanity with pearl inlay. That Seu marries the feminine and the spartan in her space feels intentional — a reflection of the dualities that animate her life and work.

“A Sexual History of the Internet” by Mindy Seu

(Photography by Tim Schutsky | Art direction by Laura Coombs)

Though she moved from New York three years ago, she resists calling herself an Angeleno — partly, she admits, because she never learned to drive despite growing up in Orange County. Her parents ran a flower shop after immigrating from South Korea. The household was conservative, Presbyterian and promoted abstinence. Like with many millennials, her sexual awakening unfolded online.

“I asked Jeeves how to have an orgasm,” she writes. “I sexted with classmates on AOL Instant Messenger. Any curiosities were saved until I could sneak onto my family’s shared ice blue iMac G3 in the living room.”

At 34, the very-online academic holds a master’s from Harvard’s Graduate School of Design and has taught at Rutgers and Yale before joining her alma mater, UCLA, as one of the youngest tenured professors (and perhaps the only one who has modeled for JW Anderson and Helmut Lang). Her first three years at UCLA have each had their crises — encampments, fires, ICE raids — yet her Gen Z students give her hope. “They’re so principled and motivated, even if it’s in a nihilistic way,” she said.

Online, fans declare their “brain crushes” on Seu, whose ultra-detailed spreadsheets have become unlikely catnip for TikTok. Vanity Fair dubbed her the rare cybernaut who “lands soft-focus photoshoots in niche lifestyle publications.” Her unusual power is the ability to move through different fields, Trojan-horsing her theories across academia, the art world, the lit scene, tech, fashion, et al. Seu’s notoriety continued to swell after appearing on the popular internet talk show “Subway Takes” with the standout zinger: “Gossip is socially useful, especially to women and the marginalized.”

“Mindy’s really good at bridging different audiences who might not read an academic text about the history of the internet but are interested in Mindy’s practice,” said Correa, Seu’s student-turned-collaborator. When the two workshopped their performance last year on their finsta (a.k.a. fake Instagram), they encountered one major hurdle: censorship. They had to get creative with their algospeak (like changing “sex” to “s*x”) to keep from getting banned.

Mindy Seu in her MacArthur Park loft.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

“A Sexual History of the Internet,” designed by Laura Coombs, carries that collaborative ethos into its financial structure. Seu’s first book went through traditional publishing, where authors often receive about 10% and contributors receive fixed fees. This time, she wanted a citation model that compensated the 46 thinkers who shaped her understanding of the subject.

She approached Yancey Strickler, director of Metalabel, “an indie record label for all forms of culture,” and co-founder of Kickstarter. Seu’s original proposal waived all profits to collaborators. “Everyone got paid but her,” Strickler said. If she wanted the model to be replicated, he told her, it needed a capitalist backbone.

They landed on Citational Splits, where everyone who was cited joined a 30% profits pool, in perpetuity, across future printings (27 opted in). The remaining 60% goes to Seu and five core collaborators. Strickler likened it to music royalties or company shares: “Your presence increases the project’s value, and some of that value should flow back to you.”

Neither can name a publishing precedent. “It shows a profound, practical morality that underlies her work,” he said.

At MOCA, about 300 Angelenos braved an atmospheric river to sit in the darkened former police car warehouse bathed in red light. No projector, no spotlight. A pair of Tabis winks at her all-black-clad friend; a couple holds hands as Seu moves through the room. (“I intentionally wear very noisy shoes,” she said earlier.)

With the calm cadence of a flight attendant, Sue instructs everyone to put their phones on Do Not Disturb, sound and brightness to max and open Instagram to find @asexualhistoryoftheinternet.

The audience reads in unison when their designated color appears. What follows is a chorus of anecdotes, artworks and historical fragments tracing the pervasive — and sometimes perverted — roots of our everyday technologies. Hearing men and women say “click and clitoris” together is its own spectacle.

“From personal websites to online communities, cryptocurrencies to AI, the internet has been built on the backs of unattributed sex workers,” one slide notes. Sex work has long been an early adopter of emerging technology — from VHS to the internet — and the present is no exception. Two years ago, OnlyFans creators made more money than the total NBA salary combined; today, the company now generates more revenue per employee than Apple or Nvidia.

Seu ends with the widely known dominatrix Mistress Harley’s concept of data domination, a subset of BDSM in which her “subs” (a.k.a. submissives) grant her remote access to their machines. Seu tells the crowd that she has essentially done the same, “viewing the voyeurs” and taking photos of us throughout the performance, which are already posted to Instagram.

We walk out into the dark rain, wondering what exactly we witnessed — and realizing, perhaps, we’ve been witnessing it all along.

WASHINGTON — No one seems to know what happened to Vicente Ventura Aguilar.

A witness told his brother and attorneys that the 44-year-old Mexican immigrant, who doesn’t have lawful immigration status, was taken into custody by immigration authorities on Oct. 7 in SouthLos Angeles and suffered a medical emergency.

But it’s been more than six weeks since then, and Ventura Aguilar’s family still hasn’t heard from him.

The Department of Homeland Security said 73 people from Mexico were arrested in the Los Angeles area between Oct. 7 and 8.

“None of them were Ventura Aguilar,” said Tricia McLaughlin, the assistant Homeland Security public affairs secretary.

“For the record, illegal aliens in detention have access to phones to contact family members and attorneys,” she added.

McLaughlin did not answer questions about what the agency did to determine whether Ventura Aguilar had ever been in its custody, such as checking for anyone with the same date of birth, variations of his name, or identifying detainees who received medical attention near the California border around Oct. 8.

Lindsay Toczylowski, co-founder of the Immigrant Defenders Law Center who is representing Ventura Aguilar’s family, said DHS never responded to her inquiries about him.

The family of Vicente Ventura Aguilar, 44, says he has been missing since Oct. 7 when a friend saw him arrested by federal immigration agents in Los Angeles. Homeland Security officials say he was never in their custody.

(Family of Vicente Ventura Aguilar)

“There’s only one agency that has answers,” she said. “Their refusal to provide this family with answers, their refusal to provide his attorneys with answers, says something about the lack of care and the cruelty of the moment right now for DHS.”

His family and lawyers checked with local hospitals and the Mexican consulate without success. They enlisted help from the office of Rep. Sydney Kamlager-Dove (D-Los Angeles), whose staff called the Los Angeles and San Diego county medical examiner’s offices. Neither had someone matching his name or description.

The Los Angeles Police Department also told Kamlager-Dove’s office that he isn’t in their system. His brother, Felipe Aguilar, said the family filed a missing person’s report with LAPD on Nov. 7.

“We’re sad and worried,” Felipe Aguilar said. “He’s my brother and we miss him here at home. He’s a very good person. We only hope to God that he’s alive.”

Felipe Aguilar said his brother, who has lived in the U.S. for around 17 years, left home around 8:15 a.m. on Oct. 7 to catch the bus for an interview for a sanitation job when he ran into friends on the corner near a local liquor store. He had his phone but had left his wallet at home.

One of those friends told Felipe Aguilar and his lawyers that he and Ventura Aguilar were detained by immigration agents and then held at B-18, a temporary holding facility at the federal building in downtown Los Angeles.

The friend was deported the next day to Tijuana. He spoke to the family in a phone call from Mexico.

Detainees at B-18 have limited access to phones and lawyers. Immigrants don’t usually turn up in the Immigration and Customs Enforcement online locator system until they’ve arrived at a long-term detention facility.

According to Felipe Aguilar and Toczylowski, the friend said Ventura Aguilar began to shake, went unconscious and fell to the ground while shackled on Oct. 8 at a facility near the border. The impact caused his face to bleed.

The friend said that facility staff called for an ambulance and moved the other detainees to a different room. Toczylowski said that was the last time anyone saw Ventura Aguilar.

She said the rapid timeline between when Ventura Aguilar was arrested to when he disappeared is emblematic of what she views as a broad lack of due process for people in government custody under the Trump administration and shows that “we don’t know who’s being deported from the United States.”

Felipe Aguilar said he called his brother’s cell phone after hearing about the arrests but it went straight to voicemail.

Felipe Aguilar said that while his brother is generally healthy, he saw a cardiologist a couple years ago about chest pain. He was on prescribed medication and his condition had improved.

His family and lawyers said Ventura Aguilar might have given immigration agents a fake name when he was arrested. Some detained people offer up a wrong name or alias, and that would explain why he never showed up in Homeland Security records. Toczylowski said federal agents sometimes misspell the name of the person they are booking into custody.

Vicente Ventura Aguilar, who has been missing since Oct. 7, had lived in the United States for 17 years, his family said.

(Family of Vicente Ventura Aguilar)

But she said the agency should make a significant attempt to search for him, such as by using biometric data or his photo.

“To me, that’s another symptom of the chaos of the immigration enforcement system as it’s happening right now,” she said of the issues with accurately identifying detainees. “And it’s what happens when you are indiscriminately, racially profiling people and picking them up off the street and holding them in conditions that are substandard, and then deporting people without due process. Mistakes get made. Right now, what we want to know is what mistakes were made here, and where is Vicente now?”

Surveillance footage from a nearby business reviewed by MS NOW shows Ventura Aguilar on the sidewalk five minutes before masked agents begin making arrests in South Los Angeles. The footage doesn’t show him being arrested, but two witnesses told the outlet that they saw agents handcuff Ventura Aguilar and place him in a van.

In a letter sent to DHS leaders Friday, Kamlager-Dove asked what steps DHS has taken to determine whether anyone matching Ventura Aguilar’s identifiers was detained last month and whether the agency has documented any medical events or hospital transports involving people taken into custody around Oct. 7-8.

“Given the length of time since Mr. Ventura Aguilar’s disappearance and the credible concern that he may have been misidentified, injured, or otherwise unaccounted for during the enforcement action, I urgently request that DHS and ICE conduct an immediate and comprehensive review” by Nov. 29, Kamlager-Dove wrote in her letter.

Kamlager-Dove said her most common immigration requests from constituents are for help with visas and passports.

“Never in all the years did I expect to get a call about someone who has completely disappeared off the face of the earth, and also never did I think that I would find myself not just calling ICE and Border Patrol but checking hospitals, checking with LAPD and checking morgues to find a constituent,” she said. “It’s horrifying and it’s completely dystopian.”

She said families across Los Angeles deserve answers and need to know whether something similar could happen to them.

“Who else is missing?” she said.

As a guitarist, Brian Baker has punk rock and hardcore credentials that are unparalleled. From effectively launching “hardcore” as a genre with Minor Threat when he was a teenager to bringing in the more melodic side of the scene with Dag Nasty and then joining Bad Religion in the mid ’90s, it’s hard to argue that any guitarist has been more influential to their scene than Baker.

“I think I just have a knack for being at the right place at the right time,” Baker says when asked about his contributions to the aforementioned legendary bands. “The key is to respect that legacy and not f— it up. I understand it’s a big deal to a lot of people — much more than it is to me. I’m just the guy who’s playing guitar, but I’ve been fortunate enough to be in bands that have been foundational for a lot of people. I think about that when I get on stage every day. I want to do a great job every time. As long as I’m able to still deliver a performance that I have respect for, hopefully other people will too.”

Standing at a high-top table under a white awning backstage at Riot Fest (Chicago’s massive punk rock festival where most of the acts are either friends of Baker or inspired by one or more of his bands) after nearly a half-century of allegedly just happening upon one iconic band after another, Baker recently released a new project — one that he’s worked on for almost 20 years during his ongoing run with Bad Religion.

A shot of Baker’s guitars on a wood pallet.

(Brian Baker)

Every time the legendary Los Angeles punk band goes on the road, Baker (like most touring musicians) finds himself with entirely too much time to kill before and after their nightly performances. To fill those long hours in strange cities, the 60-year-old D.C. native often turns to the piece of technology that so many use to occupy their free time, his smartphone. But rather than mindlessly scrolling social media or watching YouTube videos, Baker discovered a new passion for photography, constantly using each and every camera lens on the iPhones that have been in his pocket since the original released in the late 2000s.

Until recently, the fruits of Baker’s photography hobby had effectively only existed on his personal Instagram. That was until things started falling into place (“Like many things in my career,” Baker says, consistent in his refusal to take credit for the majority of his successes) for him to release some of his favorite photos as a book, appropriately titled “The Road” (released Nov. 4 via Akashic Books).

A mug shot of Baker’s first band, D.C. hardcore pioneers Minor Threat.

(Brian Baker)

“My wife suggested for a long time that people might want to look at my photographs, and I was like ‘OK, that’s great,’ but never really thought about it,” Baker says, his bandmates and other longtime friends circulating through Chicago’s Douglass Park. “Eventually, a good friend of ours named Jennifer Sakai — who’s a great photographer and has made books in the past — made a mock-up from my Instagram of what a book could look like. I wasn’t looking to make a book, but she basically presented a finished product to me, so I contacted a guy I went to elementary school with, Johnny Temple — who plays [bass] in Girls Against Boys and Soulside and has a publishing company. Much like my more successful rock bands, I walked in after everyone did all the work, and now I’m just going to coattail it.”

With or without the new book, Baker says his time-killing love of photography was born out of the veteran guitarist feeling as though he was forgetting too much and missing some of his key memories from his time on tour. Once he gave up drinking, Baker realized that he needed a way to embrace the 20+ hours each day he wasn’t spending on the stage or getting ready. He started filling his days with long walks and visits to his favorite locales — old churches, interesting buildings, graveyards (“That’s not the goth in me saying this,” Baker jokes) and anywhere else where he entertain himself away from people. And rather than trying to tell the story of the last 18 years through his iPhone camera, he’s happy just documenting those certain moments and “a lot of different ways to spend your time” in “The Road.”

“I used to take a film camera on tour, and I’d shoot a couple rolls and then forget about the camera and leave it at the hotel or something,” Baker says. “I didn’t really do a good job of being a photographer, because I’m not a photographer. I’m just a guy with a cellphone, but having the phone always on me, I just kept taking pictures of stuff for no real reason. It was like ‘Hey, look at this weird thing’ or “Look what we ate tonight” or “That church is f— up” with no intention of it being a collection or anyone really seeing it beyond my friends and family. Eventually, I got an Instagram account and some of the stuff would go there, but I’m not really a social media maven either.”

Bad Religion bassist Jay Bentley playing a bass.

(Brian Baker)

Aside from his photography skills, the release of “The Road” has also allowed Baker to flex his storytelling muscles at the various bookstores, record shops and more that he’s hitting this fall (including early October dates at West Hollywood’s Book Soup and Fullerton’s Programme Skate & Sound). Although it’s a more intimate setting than he’s used to and he’s lacking his signature guitar, Baker jokes that it’s not so different from performing music, because he’s still “on a stage with a microphone and wearing black pants.”

The book tour has also been an opportunity for Baker to connect with fans and reflect on Bad Religion and his prior bands (along with various side projects like supergroup Fake Names and Beach Rats). While he maintains that his involvement in punk history mostly comes down to happenstance, he believes that Bad Religion’s multi-generational staying power stems from always being “uniquely unfashionable” and having intelligent lyrics about topics that are still relevant. Add in the fact that they’re always improving as musicians and just enjoy getting together without looking at the bigger picture, and “not having a plan has proven to be effective” for the stalwarts.

Photo of Baker’s first amp and guitar

(Brian Baker)

But more than anything, Baker’s lack of planning or direction around his photography brings him back to the DIY nature of his early days creating albums that are now viewed as the very foundation of a four-decade-old global hardcore movement.

“Anybody can do this, so it does remind me of making records when I was very young,” Baker says. “We were just making our own records ourselves and selling them in high school, and that was Minor Threat. You think about how significant that is now, 45 years later, it’s the same thing with taking pictures. I just took a bunch of pictures, and now someone’s made a book out of them. It’s something you can do yourself, and I love that about it.”

CLETO Escobedo III, the saxophonist and leader of the house band on Jimmy Kimmel Live!, has died at age 59.

Host Jimmy Kimmel announced the death Tuesday in a heartfelt Instagram post, calling Escobedo “a great friend, father, son, musician and man.”

Kimmel, 57, wrote: “Early this morning, we lost a great friend, father, son, musician and man, my longtime bandleader Cleto Escobedo III.

“To say that we are heartbroken is an understatement. Cleto and I have been inseparable since I was nine years old.

“The fact that we got to work together every day is a dream neither of us could ever have imagined would come true,” he continued.

Kimmel ended his message with a plea to “cherish your friends” and to keep Escobedo’s family “in your prayers.”

Escobedo had led Jimmy Kimmel Live!’s house band since the show’s debut in 2003, performing alongside Kimmel nightly for more than two decades.

Escobedo’s cause of death has not been released.

He had been quietly absent from the show for months before his death.

Variety reported that Jimmy Kimmel Live! canceled its taping last Thursday due to Escobedo’s condition.

The musician fronted Cleto and the Cletones on the ABC late-night show since its 2003 premiere.

His father, Cleto Escobedo Jr., also plays in the band, which performs during the show’s tapings in Los Angeles.

Before joining Kimmel on television, Escobedo toured with Paula Abdul, Marc Anthony, and Earth, Wind & Fire.

Kimmel and Escobedo’s friendship stretched back decades to their childhood in Las Vegas, where they grew up across the street from each other and stayed close through college and adulthood.

In a 2015 interview with ABC, Kimmel recalled pushing for Escobedo to lead his band.

“Of course I wanted great musicians, but I wanted somebody I had chemistry with,” Kimmel said.

“And there’s nobody in my life I have better chemistry with than him.”

Escobedo once reflected on that loyalty in a 2014 interview with the San Fernando Sun.

He said: “Jimmy is very loyal to his friends.

“He didn’t have to ask me; I would have understood if he had hired some famous guy to be his musical director.

“But he trusted me, and I don’t take it for granted.”

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He added: “For me, as the father of young children, this is the perfect job. I can do other things if I want.

“But I want to stay here as long as they will have me. I will always stay by Jimmy’s side.”

Cleto Escobedo III, the bandleader of Cleto and the Cletones, the house band for “Jimmy Kimmel Live!,” has died. The musician and lifelong friend of Kimmel was 59.

Kimmel confirmed Escobedo’s death early Tuesday morning in an Instagram post later that day, writing that “we lost a great friend, father, son, musician and man.”

“To say that we are heartbroken is an understatement,” Kimmel continued. “Cleto and I have been inseparable since I was nine years old. The fact that we got to work together every day is a dream neither of us could ever have imagined would come true. Cherish your friends and please keep Cleto’s wife, children and parents in your prayers.”

The news of Escobedo’s death comes after “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” was abruptly canceled Thursday , reportedly due to a “personal matter.” The cause of Escobedo’s death was not immediately released.

Escobedo had led the band through the late-night show since its premiere in 2003, playing alongside a group of musicians that included his father, Cleto Escobedo Jr.

Escobedo was an accomplished professional musician, having toured with Earth, Wind and Fire’s Philip Bailey and Paula Abdul and recorded with Marc Anthony, Tom Scott and Take Six. When Kimmel got his own ABC late-night talk show in 2003, he pushed for Escobedo to lead the house band, he told WABC in 2015.

“Of course I wanted great musicians, but I wanted somebody I had chemistry with,” Kimmel told the outlet. “And there’s nobody in my life I have better chemistry with than him.”

In an August 2016 episode, Kimmel wished Escobedo a happy 50th birthday and highlighted his long-standing relationship with the musician. They met in 1977 when Kimmel’s family moved in across the street from the Escobedos in Las Vegas. “We began a lifetime of friendship that was highlighted by the kind of torture that only an older brother can inflict on you without being arrested,” Kimmel said before sharing a series of stories about their sibling-like bond and Escobedo’s antics.

“I can’t wait till your kids turn 12 and see this, and find out their father is a secret maniac,” Kimmel said. The host also shared photos of them as children, including one of Escobedo playing the saxophone and Kimmel playing the clarinet.

In addition to his father and other family members, Escobedo is survived by his wife, Lori, and their two children.

The Associated Press contributed to this report.

Dominic Perfetti is a 6-foot-7 starting basketball player for St. John Bosco. Even more impressive is that he’s one of the top high school lacrosse players in the nation and has committed to Syracuse.

He became interested in lacrosse when a friend gave him a stick when he was 6 years old. He started fooling around with it and has been playing lacrosse ever since. He got so good that top programs on the East Coast reached out. And he’s been playing for a club team, too.

He’s so tall as a defender that it makes him a unique player.

“I might be the tallest lacrosse player in history,” Perfetti joked.

His size, combined with 6-9 Christian Collins and 7-1 Howie Wu, gives St. John Bosco a formidable trio in basketball. If his team is busy in the basketball playoffs, he’ll also try to play lacrosse simultaneously for the Braves.

He’ll gladly demonstrate his shooting ability in lacrosse if anyone presents him with a stick and ball. And he can dunk, too.

This is a daily look at the positive happenings in high school sports. To submit any news, please email [email protected].

When Nancy Pelosi first ran for Congress, she was one of 14 candidates, the front-runner and a target.

At the time, Pelosi was little known to San Francisco voters. But she was already a fixture in national politics. She was a major Democratic fundraiser, who helped lure the party’s 1984 national convention to her adopted home town. She served as head of California’s Democratic Party and hosted a salon that was a must-stop for any politician passing through.

She was the chosen successor of Rep. Sala Burton, a short-timer who took over the House seat held for decades by her late husband, Philip, and who delivered a personal benediction from her deathbed.

But at age 49, Pelosi had never held public office — she was too busy raising five kids, on top of all that political moving and shaking — and opponents made light of role as hostess. “The party girl for the party,” they dubbed her, a taunt that blared from billboards around town.

She obviously showed them.

Pelosi not only made history, becoming the nation’s first female speaker of the House. She became the party’s spine and its sinew, holding together the Democrat’s many warring factions and standing firm at times the more timorous were prepared to back down.

The Affordable Care Act — President Obama’s signature achievement — would never have passed if Pelosi had not insisted on pressing on when many, including some in the White House, wished to surrender.

She played a significant role in twice helping rescue the country from economic collapse — the first time in 2009 amid the Great Recession, then in 2020 during the shutdown caused by the COVID-19 pandemic — mustering recalcitrant Democrats to ensure House passage.

“She will go down in history as one of the most important speakers,” James Thurber, a congressional expert at Washington’s American University, said. “She knew the rules, she knew the process, she knew the personalities of the key players, and she knew how to work the system.”

Pelosi’s announcement Thursday that she will not seek reelection — at age 85, after 38 years in Congress — came as no surprise. She saw firsthand the ravages that consumed her friend and former neighbor, Dianne Feinstein. (Pelosi’s eldest daughter, Nancy, was a last caretaker for the late senator.)

She was not about to repeat that final, sad act.

Pelosi, who was first elected in 1987, once said she never expected to serve in Congress more than 10 years. She recalled seeing a geriatric House member hobbling on a cane and telling a colleague, “It’s never going to be me. I’m not staying around that long.”

(She never used a cane, but did give up her trademark stiletto heels for a time after suffering a fall last December and undergoing hip replacement surgery.)

Pelosi had intended to retire sooner, anticipating Hillary Clinton would be elected president in 2016 and seeing that as a logical, and fitting, end point to her trailblazing political career. “I have things to do. Books to write; places to go; grandchildren, first and foremost, to love,” she said in a 2018 interview.

However, she was determined to stymie President Trump in his first term and stuck around, emerging as one of his chief nemeses. After Joe Biden was elected, Pelosi finally yielded the speaker’s gavel in November 2022.

But she remained a substantive figure, still wielding enormous power behind the scenes. Among other quiet maneuvers, she was instrumental in helping ease aside Biden after his disastrous debate performance sent Democrats into a panic. He was a personal friend, and long-ago guest at her political salon, but Pelosi anticipated a down-ticket disaster if Biden remained the party’s nominee. So, in her estimation, he had to go.

It was the kind of ruthlessness that gave Pelosi great pride; she boasted of a reptilian cold-bloodedness and, indeed, though she shared the liberal leanings of her hometown, Pelosi was no ideologue. That’s what made her a superb deal-maker and legislative tactician, along with the personal touch she brought to her leadership.

“She had a will of steel, but she also had a lot of grace and warmth,” said Thurber, “and that’s not always the case with speakers.”

History-making aside, Pelosi left an enduring mark on San Francisco, the place she moved to from Baltimore as a young mother with her husband, Paul, a financier and real estate investor. She brought home billions of dollars for earthquake safety, re-purposing old military facilities — the former Presidio Army base is a spectacular park — funding AIDS research and treatment, expanding public transit and countless other programs.

Her work in the 1980s and 1990s on AIDS funding was crucial in helping move discussion of the disease from the shadows — where it was viewed as a plague that mainly struck gay men and drug users — to a pressing national concern.

In the process, she become a San Francisco institution, as venerated as the Golden Gate Bridge and beloved as the city’s tangy sourdough bread.

“She’s an icon,” said Aaron Peskin, a former San Francisco County supervisor and 2024 candidate for mayor. “She walks into a room, people left, right and center, old, young, white, Black, Chinese stand on their feet. She’s one of the greatest speakers we have ever had and this town understands that.”

Pelosi grew up in Baltimore in a political family. He father, Tommy D’Alesandro, was a Democratic New Deal congressman, who went on to serve three terms as mayor. “Little Nancy” stuffed envelopes — as her own children would — passed out ballots and often traveled by her father’s side to campaign events. (D’Alesandro went on to serve three terms as mayor; Pelosi’s brother, Tommy III, held the job for a single term.)

David Axelrod, who saw Pelosi up close while serving as a top aide in the Obama White House, said he once asked her what she learned growing up in such a political household. “She didn’t skip a beat,” Axelrod said. “She said, ‘I learned how to count.’ ”

Meaning when to call the roll on a key legislative vote and when to cut her losses in the face of inevitable defeat.

Pelosi is still so popular in San Francisco she could well have eked out yet another reelection victory in 2026, despite facing the first serious challenge since that first run for Congress. But the campaign would have been brutal and potentially quite ugly.

More than just about anyone, Pelosi knows how to read a political situation with dispassion, detachment and cold-eyed calculation.

She knew it was time.