SB 79 and Our Hood


SB 79 is a new law, authored by State Senator Scott Wiener, approved by the legislature, and recently signed by Governor Gavin Newsom, to allow the state to overrule local zoning laws and permit the construction of multi-family housing on lots which are zoned for single family housing when these properties are within a half or quarter mile of a bus or light rail stop.

In Los Angeles, the law will allow much denser and higher development along not only wide boulevards, but inside old, intact, single-family streets, “side streets” which never had apartments or multi-unit housing.


A guide to the law along with maps is here.

Tiered density: The allowable height and density for projects are determined by the quality of the transit stop and the project’s proximity to it.

Tier 1: Applies to projects near high-frequency commuter rail or heavy rail transit, like BART and LA Metro.

Tier 2: Applies to projects near light rail and bus rapid transit lines.

Along Sepulveda and Van Nuys Boulevard the proposed zoning map looks like purple bullet holes that radiate from transit stops. These circles are centered around the transportation stops and take no consideration into the historic or local character of any neighborhood. 

For example, I live on Hamlin Street which is a “Tier 2” zone because we are within a ¼ of Sepulveda Boulevard bus stop. My street, built on old walnut orchards, from 1936 onwards, is lined with palm trees, and then curves along with oak trees. The street has two-hour parking because of its proximity to Van Nuys High School.

If the law succeeds, my section of Hamlin Street would allow 65-foot-high buildings (six and half stories).

But the part of Hamlin Street a few hundred feet east from me would remain single family.

West of Sepulveda, south of Victory, is the beautiful and often filmed Orion Avenue with large colonial style houses planted with rose bushes and ranch fences, the location for many commercials seeking “a typical American street” that doesn’t exist anymore. With SB 79, the east side of the street could be obliterated with apartments that destroy the very beauty residents and film makers pay dearly for.


Yesterday, I had a real life encounter of what Hamlin St. and other locations nearby could become when I parked my car near 3052 West Boulevard in the Jefferson Park neighborhood of Los Angeles, east of Culver City. I was there to visit a new, multi restaurant creation, Maydan Market.

This area was given an economic boost by the Expo Line, a light rail system that connects downtown with Santa Monica. The good parts are investment, cleaner streets, the lowering of crime and the raising of the cultural and civic activities. 

The ugly parts are the disfiguring, ad hoc apartments that pop up on formerly coherent streets of 1920s bungalows. My eyes hurt looking at 3045 West Boulevard, a black and gray box suspended over a cinderblock faced garage, with a massive four story high open-air staircase on the side of the building. It looms like a monster over the street, with no respect or sensitivity to the vernacular that had existed here for 90 years.

Am I a hypocrite for decrying liberalized zoning that will change my backyard? Yes, I am. Sort of.

This blog has argued for years for the construction of new, multi-family buildings to replace unused parking lots behind abandoned shopping centers, or where there is a sea of asphalt like the Orange Line parking area along Sepulveda which was constructed for thousands of vehicles and is now empty.  I have fought for the idea of an architectural, coherent, community wide style that would incorporate history and embrace modernism but do it without destroying but enhancing the community of Van Nuys. 

And I’ve always cast a cold, unforgiving, forensic eye on the political neglect of Van Nuys by elected officials who seem to always be performing social media acts of kindness for oppressed groups while neglecting the needs of residents in this district. 

There are commercial zones galore that cry out for taller residential buildings along the wide boulevards of Van Nuys and greater Los Angeles. The one-story tall shops with parking lots in front are so defunct and useless that their very presence destroys civilized life and endangers the health of pedestrians. 

There are blighted buildings, such as this one at 7101 Sepulveda, that have been empty for years, packed with derelicts, unable to be demolished, yet crying out for replacement. As a bitter pill, the residents in the tree lined, charming, quiet streets behind must now expect multi-family housing to replace their 1940s ranchettes.

What do our elected leaders in Sacramento do with the quandary of building more housing? They embrace a fantasy of destroying single family homes and backyards. 

Will your neighbors and you, the elderly couple in the corner house, desire to ride buses (with homeless, drug addicts, crime?) and come home, late at night, from a bus stop on Sepulveda, and enter a new world of yet more cars, loud music, marijuana, dumped mattresses, and YouTube/TikTok/OnlyFans influencers smoking on the balcony next door? I doubt it.

Is that the paradise of tomorrow? Circles on a map, purple splotches of political malfeasance, indicating nothing but more mayhem, disorder and chaos.

I hope I’m long gone, either from life or Van Nuys, before this happens. 

A Fish and Bear Story


Some months back, a very creative couple, Lynn and Mark, and their two boys, moved into a house on my street that had been empty for five years. 

The new family set about renovting the circa 1950 ranch until it is now a creamy white with a writing studio carved out of a two-car garage.

Regularly, Lynn Ferguson, who was born in Scotland, and seems to have carried that nation’s affinity for poetic prose to America, pens very witty, alluring, real tales of life.   She crafts stories that are funny, sad and pull you in. 

Yesterday, she sent another one by email, which she has given permission for me to reprint here:

Billboard: Sepulveda at Victory
“Sometimes LA is mental. Truly utterly mental. And not in a crazy Hollywood, showbiz kind of way, but in a completely domestic random sort of way.

For a start, there’s the driving. My late father used to claim that the worst drivers in the world were in Falkirk – not Rome or Bangkok or Tijuana, but Falkirk. But if he were alive today, I’m sure that when it comes to ‘most mental drivers per square mile” even he would reckon LA would have to be a contender.

Then there’s the pajama thing. For some completely unknown reason, in LA – and only in LA as far as I know – people will walk about the street completely in their pajamas. And I’m not talking about poor people who don’t have clothes or whatever. Generally the pajama wearers are sporting pretty upmarket pajamas, like they’ve just stumbled out of bed and are way too important to have bothered getting dressed yet. 

I’ve lived in LA for 10 years now, so normally I don’t notice it and more. but today is not a normal day. 

This morning I woke up early to make a special breakfast for my eldest son, Fergus, who is 16 today. He likes cinnamon rolls, which are a buggar to bake before school time, but he loves them, and I love him.
Part man, part child, part obstreperous teenager, and the rest of him beautiful beating honest heart.

I grieve for the years of childhood we’ve left behind. I wish I had made more time for them. I wish I had known how quickly they would pass.  I can see that time is speeding up, and before long he will have his own life and have someone else to make his birthday breakfast, and so I close my eyes because I do not want to grieve for something that is not actually here yet.


I so want him to have beautiful bright future, but whenever I hear the news, I’m scared. His heart is too big. Sometimes he’s too kind. This world right now, could eat him alive.

I know Mark feels it too. I know him well enough to see it.

After the kids went off to school, (and I had completely changed out of pajamas into clothes) Mark and I went to have some breakfast with some close friends.


We’d arranged to meet at a cafe one block away from our old house, and as we were a little early, we decided to have a look at our old house to see if the developers had started work on it yet.


We drove round the block –  narrowly avoiding some middle aged entitled lady, resplendent in a red satin dressing gown and carpet slippers, who was strolling nonchalantly in the middle of the road – and turned into our street. 
 
The side of the house looked a little strange as we approached,  but I didn’t know why. It was only as we drove closer I saw that half of the house was already demolished.
Gone was the living room. Gone was the family room. Gone was Fergus’s bedroom with the bookcase door.

And although I live in a new house – a house that I love – and we have new bedrooms and a living room and a studio, I felt some sort of terrible loss for the old house. One day, nobody will ever know that that house once stood there. What if I forget all the good things that happened there? What about when even the memories are gone?

On so many levels, Mark and I were so glad to meet our friends for breakfast.
1. Because they’re just frankly adorable humans.
2. Because we hadn’t seen them in forever.
and 3. Because they let us (particularly me) talk and talk and talk and I could forget about feeling so strange.

We chatted for so long that the lady of indiscriminate age, sitting three tables down,  sporting a pink satin dressing gown, over mauve striped pajamas and sheepskin slippers finished her croissant and later reappeared power-walking by in her yoga clothes.

After breakfast, we got in the car and drove around the block. The house was gone. Flattened. Just like that. In the space of an hour. What had once been our home was pile of rubble.

I made Mark take photographs. I have no idea why, but I wanted pictures of the rubble.

As we headed back home, I asked Mark to drop me off to the gym.
I used to go to the gym a lot in my 30s. I’d run for an hour. I loved how free it made me feel. 
I stopped not longer after I had Fergus. Running for an hour doesn’t feel quite as freeing when you’ve been up on diaper duty a couple of times during the night.
Then recently,  my oncologist told me that if I do 20 minutes of cardio three times a week, the chance of the big C revisiting decreases dramatically, so off to the gym I go.

Heading home after my workout, I thought about how fit I used to be. How I would have laughed off the workout I’d just done as not even exercise. .
I was thinking about how I wish I’d known then, what I know now, when I came to a crossing on the road.

It’s a big mean old crossing. Six lanes of traffic on an intersection. Bad in any city, but in LA where there drivers could be mental, entitled, pajama-wearers, possibly lethal.



Standing beside me there was a very smart looking Latino gentleman, with a walker. As the light signaled for us to cross, he struggled off the sidewalk onto the road. For him this crossing was an act of daring.

“Do you want me to walk with you?” I asked.
“Please,” he said. “The drivers here, they are crazy. They don’t care.”
“I know.” I said, “Some of them are even wearing pajamas.”

He smiled, out of politeness. I’m not sure he had any idea what I meant. 

“Where do you need to get to?” I asked.

“Just over there to the bus stop.”

Struggling to get his legs to move faster, an not hold up the traffic, he was breathless, and his face was getting red.

“No rush.” I said, “Take your time. I’m here as well. They’ll get in real trouble if they run both of us over. We will take as long as it takes.”

And he laughed.

And there, right in the middle of the crosswalk, it was all suddenly clear. I am simply just in between. Not quite one place or the other.
I can’t go back. I can only go forward. 
And the most vulnerable place of all is right in the middle.

We got to the other side and he smiled. He reached into his jacket and pulled out some dollars.

“Take money,” he said. 

“No,” I said, “You keep it.”

“The world is hard and you are kind. Let me give you my money.”

“No,” I said. “Honestly. I was feeling a bit unsettled today, and you’ve helped me out.”

“I did?” 

I nodded.

“People used to help each other all the time. But now, I don’t know. There’s cruelty. Mean. Things like I thought I’d never see again. I worry for the future.”

I saw his bus approaching.

“I think we’ll be OK. I think we’ve just been in the middle of something. My eldest son turned 16 today.” I said.

His face lit up.

“Oh my,” he said, “You are blessed.”

“I know,” I said, “I really am.”

“Tell your son, a man is truly strong when he is kind.”

And with that, he clambered very slowly onto the bus.

So, why do I work with story? Because people are fucking amazing. Because the answer to a question you don’t even know you have,  is sometimes to be found on the lips of a complete stranger. Because an honest word of wisdom, can be more precious and more lasting that any jewel. That’s why.

So, if you want to partake in a bit of storytelling, please join us for Fish and Bear on November 8th or 18th.

Peace and love,

Lynn
xoxo”








Peace and Love

Lynn
xoxox

Thomas Friedman: Is this Guy Paid to Write?


friedman-ts-190

I don’t think I have ever seen such a poorly written column as that penned by the New York Times’ columnist Thomas Friedman. It is galling how grammatically lazy he writes:

“We have created a system for growth that depended on our building more and more stores to sell more and more stuff made in more and more factories in China, powered by more and more coal that would cause more and more climate change but earn China more and more dollars to buy more and more U.S. T-bills so America would have more and more money to build more and more stores and sell more and more stuff that would employ more and more Chinese …”