Carlsbad’s growth management plan – dating from the 1980s – is often held up as a model of integrating private residential growth with public infrastructure. (It’s even highlighted in Guide To California Planning . ) Times have changed in the last 40 years and local growth control advocates say the Carlsbad City Council has not stuck to the spirit of the initiative. But the growth control folks keep losing in court.

Apparently a city can delegate final approval of its housing element to the city manager – and not hold a final public hearing – so long as the final changes as a result of negotiating with the Department of Housing and Community Development are relatively minor.

The City of Davis doesn’t have to do an environmental analysis under the California Environmental Quality Act in order to move playground equipment from one location to another.

Judge Sides With Developers On Preliminary Application Timing

This is a true story, not a fairy tale: the last time I spent a night in Anaheim was sometime in the 1990s for high school "grad night" at a certain local amusement park. P.M. Dawn was one of the musical acts. Jackets and ties were required for the gentlemen. And I discovered that there is no delirium quite like the delirium that comes with riding "It's a Small World" (sober) at 4 a.m. I vowed never to go back, and I've kept that vow. But, here I am for this week's conference of the California chapter of the American Planning Association. I'm back to speak about good books, learn about good cities, and commune with colleagues after a long hiatus. I apparently am not the typical Anaheim visitor. This morning I exited the 5 Freeway at 7:25 a.m. at Harbor Bl. Orange County, like much of American suburbia, was build around streets like Harbor: six lanes, plus some left-turn lanes; a median with a fence down the middle (to prevent jaywalking); perilously high speed limits; and limited pedestrian crossings. Usually, the shortage of pedestrian crossings doesn't matter. People rarely walk on streets like Harbor, both because they are unpleasant at foot level and because they don't run through walkable neighborhoods. But, in Anaheim, on Harbor Bl., the sidewalks are full. At the crack of dawn on a grey autumn Sunday, they're full like those of the Champs-Elysse, Broadway, or Michigan Avenue at high noon on a summer's day. They're full like those of the Las Vegas Strip at midnight. Where was everyone going? Church? The farmers market? Early-bird brunch? Not exactly.  The mouse-eared hats were a pretty strong tipoff. Whatever magic takes place inside Disney's kingdom, the means of ingress are decidedly terrestrial. You either walk from your hotel, or you drive from points beyond. Flying in on an elephant is not an option. On the one hand, the there's a shocking contrast between the lifelessness of Harbor Bl. and the intrigue of Tomorrow, Fantasy, Adventure (and, of course, California Adventure, which you apparently visit if you don't like the real California but also don't want to leave California). On the other hand, that contrast is likely a feature, not a bug. Disneyland came about precisely at the peak of and, I would argue, because of mid-20th century suburbanization. As the country was becoming deliberately dull and homogenous in the late 1950s, a place of excitement, escape, and, indeed, ersatz urbanism became more marketable. Disneyland promoted suburbanization in order to offer an antidote to suburbanization. The uglier Harbor Bl. is, and the less pleasant that walk is, the more exciting those other -lands become. Much of this has been theorized already, most usefully by Jean Baudrillard, who declared Disneyland to be a "simulacrum" -- a copy that overwhelms the original. What even Baudrillard -- or Walt Disney, for that matter -- could not have imagined was the extent to which the Disney empire would grow. This morning's opening session put the empire, and the Empire, on full display. Two Disney "imagineers" gave a brief history of Disney's theme parks (now numbering 12 worldwide), fawningly describing how the original park went from orange groves to opening day in just over a year, and reporting on the latest attractions they are dreaming up. They are a far from from animatronic that Abraham Lincoln that amazed crowds at the 1964 New York World's Fair. They are, to use imagineer parlance, fully immersive worlds, centered on the Star Wars universe and whatever other multi-platform franchise Disney wants to promote. The latest is a two-day stay at a Star Wars Extended Universe hotel, which seems like a cross between space camp and The Shining. At every turn, Disney stands for the ability to create "worlds" that are somehow both idealized and realistic, wholly accessible through suspension of disbelief and steep admission fees. However much effort Disney's folks put into designing Disneyland down to the last detail, today's "imagineers" are working harder that Walt ever could imagine. Fiction on screen merely requires viewers to believe that the scenes they are witnessing could have happened -- if not in front of their eyes in the moment, then perhaps a long time ago in... well, you know where. But fiction in three dimensions means that viewers aren't viewers. They are participants. The action takes place in real time and in the very place where the viewer stands. The viewer doesn't see only what the camera sees; he sees (and hears, smells, and feels) whatever he wants to see. For these reasons, imagineers work very hard. Fooling people in three dimensions is vastly--exponentially--more challenging than fooling them in two dimensions. They design physical spaces down to the finest detail -- the howl of a yeti; the whoomp of a light saber; the hem of a princess' train -- and they design storylines to command visitors' attention. Imperfections or plot holes cannot be wished away. The illusion must become real for the experience to matter. So, what does all of this have to do with Harbor Bl.? Imagineering is not cheap. Disney spends money to make money. So much so that the Disneyland complex alone takes in $3.8 billion annually. That's money that people, over 15 million per year, spend voluntarily. And why? Because, say what you will about artifice, consumerism, and wishing upon a star, Disneyland is nicer than the real world. People are willing to pay for nice, even for only a few hours. That's because, for much of recent history, in the vast majority of places, the imagination and talent has been privatized, funded, and promoted, and the public realm has, in too many cases, been neglected, starved, and vilified. The public realm doesn't get nearly the sort of attention and investment as even a few dozen acres of private realm. That's how we end up with streets like Harbor Bl. and "attractions" like Main Street USA. This morning's presentation was, I presume, supposed to inspire planners. And I hope it did. I hope in inspired them to imagine how to write plans and codes that are every bit as enchanting as the rides and worlds that hum to life every morning atop those former orange groves. I hope no one has to pay an admission fee to spend time in a place that excites them, and I hope no one has to cross eight lanes of traffic to do so. It's a small world after all. A small world with very big streets.

Not long ago, fans of mass transit in California had to be very patient. An entire decade could go by without the opening of a major transit line in California.

Roughly speaking, for every percentage point increase in prevailing interest rates for construction, the collective cost of producing the estimated 2.5 million housing units that California needs, at a conservative half-million dollars per unit, increases by $12.5 billion per year.

The most telling CP&DR headline of 2022 came very early in the year, on January 10: "Cities Move Quickly to Regulate SB 9 Housing Units."

After a record-setting budget and budget surplus last year, of $235 billion and $95 billion, respectively, economic gravity is setting in. Gov. Gavin Newsom announced a 2023-24 budget that slashes over $22 billion of intended spending in order to accommodate what is expected to be lower tax revenues.

Only a handful of land use measures made it on to local ballots in June -- but it was a varied, colorful bunch.

While few economists would call California's revenue streams optimal -- especially with the constraints of Proposition 13 -- the state hit the jackpot in 2021 with, by some measures, a surplus of over $95 billion above projections. That surplus is bigger than the entire annual budgets of all but eight states. This year's total general fund budget amounts to $235 billion, up from $196 billion last year.

"Coals to Newcastle" isn't exactly the right metaphor, but it's close. The delivery in question is not a boatload of anthracite but rather its opposite: a recent $ 1.1 billion donation from John Doerr, a partner at the vaunted Silicon Valley venture capital firm Kleiner Perkins, and his wife Ann, to Stanford University for the establishment of the Doerr School of Sustainability. It is envisioned as an interdisciplinary educational and research institution dedicated to fighting climate change.  The school will cover disciplines including energy, climate science, and sustainable development and environmental justice, and it will house up to 150 faculty members. I don’t doubt that an institution like Stanford will produce important work with those funds. And yet, the idea of fighting climate change by cloistering it in an ultra-exclusive institution, in a region that is already well versed in the ravages of climate chance, seems to miss the mark. To be sure, undoing, mitigating, or at least adapting to the effects of climate change requires study. But academic research takes time. And the climate effort needs many things that already exist, or, at least, that are coming into existence—especially in California. Dating back to the days of “An Inconvenient Truth,” the state adopted a raft of laws and regulations designed to promote dense development. They include AB 32 (greenhouse gas reduction), SB 375 , (dense development and coordination between land use and transportation), SB 743 (reducing vehicle miles traveled), and others—all of which take aim, in some way or another—at the carbon-intensive landscape that California built in the 20 th century and on the types of fuels we use. For planners, the most important elements of these laws are those that promote dense urban development that enables people to get around without individual cars and that align development with public transit and active transportation. In many cases, these regulations are designed to enable the California Environmental Quality Act—one of the country’s original pro-environment laws--to actually do what it's supposed to do. These policies are complicated insofar as they are bureaucratic. And they are controversial insofar as many Californians cling to the status quo, especially if it involves a single-unit home. But they are based on pretty simple principles. Regardless of what new model of electric Hummer comes along or how much your wifi-enabled thermostat knows about your bodily habits, the "technologies" and "policies" surrounding dense, car-phobic development are literally millennia old. In some cases, mitigating climate change doesn't require anything new -- it just requires less obstruction. Look at, for instance, CEQA's antagonism toward infill development or the affordable housing industry's disingenuous affection for parking minimums (which they like only because they allegedly make density bonuses relatively more attractive). Every planner knows about them, whether they went to Stanford or have just looked out the window.  That's one reason why, as delighted as I am for a proud California institution to get a windfall, the approach and the geography of this gift perplex me. Granted, Stanford is a global institution, and the school will have global impacts. But location still matters. California is already a leader on the climate front, in terms of policy, public sentiment, and technology. For all of California’s faults, obliviousness to climate change is not one of them. The hearts and minds that need changing are elsewhere. There's Texas, for instance – where the Doerrs went to college. Rather than plunk $1 billion down just a few miles Tesla’s main factory, why not do it in Houston – the home of ExxonMobil? Or maybe in Iowa, where ethanol corn still gets more respect than windmills. Or Florida, which promises to sink into the Atlantic any day now. Those would have been difficult choices (because, in part, many scholars and students might be uncomfortable living in some of those political climates). But they would have sent a far stronger message. Instead, the Doerrs chose to keep their money in their own backyard, comfortably within view of their fellow tech billionaires. And what backyards they are! Say what you will about New York billionaires, they live more sustainability than Woodside billionaires do. I don’t like to make ad hominem arguments. But, it’s possible that the Doerrs are focusing on academic and technological solutions to climate change because they—and so many others in Silicon Valley—are unschooled in the urbanist solutions. Despite having a darn good model of dense urbanism at the northern end of the San Francisco Peninsula, the cities of the South Bay exemplify what not to do. They rely on freeways and wide boulevards. They celebrate single-family homes and denigrate density. They price out almost all workers below executive level, forcing them to drive in or take infamous “Google Buses” and the like. For people who deal in futuristic nano-scale technology, the carbon footprint of the typical Silicon Valleyite is more like that of a brontosaurus. The advances that have come out of Silicon Valley in the past three decades eclipse anything in the previous history of human civilization. Unfortunately, many of them have arisen in the service of wealth creation rather than in the preservation of the human race, civil society, and the biosphere. Oh well. The Doerrs’ donation feels more like penance than a sincere attempt to marshal the financial and intellectual forces of his industry. $1 billion is a pittance for Silicon Valley. $1 billion is a tiny fraction of the funding that Kleiner Perkins has awarded and a rounding error compared to the value of the companies in which it has invested. Heck, it's only 10% of the Doerrs’ personal net worth. But, $1 billion is better than nothing, I suppose. I sincerely hope the Doerrs’ donation does some good. (In particular, I hope the institute brings on some psychologists to figure out how to talk sense into climate deniers.) John Doerr has been an effective angel investor in the world’s sexiest industry. In this instance, though, he and many other smart, wealthy, powerful people are going to have to figure out more humble ways to move heaven and earth. Until then, I guess we'll have to keep the coal shipments coming. Image courtesy of Ari He, via Flickr .