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Change

Overwhelmed by the Terrors of Tomorrow

By | The Good Plan | No Comments

Earlier this week, my acupuncturist asked  if I could ever imagine living in a pain free world, without the chronic head or back aches that brought me to her in the first place. A conversation on the doomsday mentality followed. I discussed how I could never disillusion myself into thinking I could one day have a pain-free life, but rather I do what I felt most people do, live with a mindset that accepts things they way they are, and then responds in kind. Why, and how could we live with fruitless hope?

The conversation made me think about how our society has trained itself to create a market around the doomsday mentality. I feel like I less frequently read about inventions for a world of equality than I do about inventions in response to fear.

Several months after Hurricane Sandy, after the articles on recovery efforts and rising insurance costs, there were the articles on building new resilient cities — floating schools, and planning for the sinking of coastlines throughout the next century. After the BP oil spill there were articles on a world without seafood, and this past week, an article on an art exhibit entitled ‘Ghostfood,’ made my skin crawl, as it proposed the provision of oxygen tubes, allowing people to experience the taste of chocolate, since one day it is forecast that all chocolate will be gone.

I’m torn by these premonitions. While preparing for the generations to come is a responsibility of our time and a socially responsible application of our acquired knowledge, I wonder how much of this projection of a destitute and deprived future is taking us away from our ability to revel in the present and solve the problems at hand. Is it possible to enjoy where we are right now, and what we do right now, tearing ourselves away from the future mentality of destruction without being seemingly irresponsible? Fighting against segregation and immediate issues such as the 1% vs 99% is one thing, as it affects our ability to respond and evolve, but is there more detriment to a productive emotional state if we insist on focusing on the coast-less chocolate-less, water world of our future?

If sending people into space for $250,000 should take precedent over ensuring the children in the Delta (or Baltimore City, for that matter), are educated. If we should be growing petri-dish-produced hamburger instead of taking a more active response to the poachers poisoning watering holes in Africa. If we’re living in a world where we do nothing but proselytize the proposed resolution to destruction, are we overlooking our ability to prevent, or heartily postpone this destruction in the first place?

Focusing more on the now, having contests deisgning higher seawalls or hurricane proof homes should take precedence over what the world wiould be like without fat belly tuna. Teaching urban farming may be a better option than theorizing on which place is going to be the new New York City when the current one has gone the route of Atlantis.

Imagine the difference if we could see the change created by our actions, if the knowledge we had was applied in a way that helped people more immediately, allowing us to believe the world would get better. If we could see the ramifications of our actions in our own lifetimes, instead of the solutions that exist hundreds of years away. What if people saw good and felt change, would that shift the way we care about the places we live and the world around us? I argue that it would. Running community meetings where people can see change does worlds more than the mentality of residents in the communities repeatedly positioned as guinea pigs, studied by a semester-long workshop of college students and presented with a report that then sits on the shelf. Seeing change may allow us to change our mindsets; allowing us to picture a pain free world because we see change for the good, instead of the repeated and infinite promise that generations from now, people will thank us.

IMAGE CREDIT. “Apocalypse” by Ignacy Gierdziejewski, Wikimedia Commons.

Outlawing Spare Change

By | Homelessness, The Race to End Homelessness | One Comment

Some people are surprised to learn that I don’t usually give money to panhandlers. It isn’t because I don’t care about those experiencing homelessness. It is because 1. Working in homeless services (shockingly) doesn’t pay me enough to pull out my wallet every day, 2. I don’t carry cash nearly as often as I should, and 3. I can’t give away money to the clients at my job, even if I could afford to.

So today, when I gave a dollar bill to a guy with a sign and a battered Red Sox cap, it wasn’t because I thought it would end homelessness. It was because I am so disturbed by the legislation before Baltimore City Council this month that attempts to make panhandling illegal that I wanted to give a dollar away before it becomes too late. Also, I am really rooting for the Red Sox.

Several Baltimore laws already prohibit aggressive panhandling, but a new proposal would encourage police to put increased pressure on individuals asking for money. The bill would outlaw panhandling within ten feet of any restaurant or storefront. Anyone who has spent time in Baltimore will realize that this essentially outlaws asking for money in all of downtown. Councilwoman Rochelle “Rikki” Spector, who supports the bill, thinks these rules will put an end to what she deems the “atrocious behavior” of asking people on the street for spare change.

You’ve likely seen the cardboard signs, “Looking for Work,” or “Homeless, Anything Helps.” To me, these signs are people silently screaming for help, people who have run out of options. Asking for help is what we teach children to do at a young age, and yet Baltimore is considering taking away that right. If visitors to the downtown area don’t want to give money, they can — and should — calmly say no. Panhandling will not put an end to homelessness. It has no place in the The Journey Home, nor is it anyone’s ideal source of income. But on a day when someone is hungry, or needs bus fare, or shampoo, is it wrong to ask your neighbors for some help?

I often hear that people are afraid the person they donate to will use the money for drugs or alcohol. More than once I have accompanied an individual into a sandwich shop or a grocery store and picked up the tab (as has Change-Engine contributor Robyn Stegman), but when I give cash, I don’t ask questions about where it is going. Giving money away is my choice, but how someone spends it is not.

If “atrocious behavior” means buying something to eat, talking to strangers, or asking for help, then I’d suggest that we are all guilty — and I’d hope for more, not less, of this behavior in Baltimore.

Should Memory Hinder Progress?

By | The Good Plan | One Comment

This past week, a friend sent me an email titled ‘Very Worrisome.’ In the body of the email, she referenced an article from The Baltimore Sun on Vacants to Value and the demolition of rowhomes in certain parts of the city. A historic preservationist living in New Orleans, she was distraught that the unique architecture of our city was being eradicated in the name of revitalization.

I responded to the email, validating her concern, though I suggested that perhaps these houses were beyond repair. Not just in their structural integrity, but in their institutional memory. I love that term – institutional memory – where we assign a value to a place based on our own experiences; what we’ve read, what we’ve heard. But it can be a hindrance to acceptance of change.

When applied to these houses, or these shells of houses, I told my friend that perhaps the institutional memory was justification enough in the razing of this housing stock. “…The city has been tearing down houses like crazy in these areas,” I wrote, “ as we’ve found the oral history is more prevalent in keeping people away. It very much is a blank slate approach — clear the structure, clear the history. In truth, these places are so unbelievably scary and infrastructurally un-sound that I can’t imagine anyone investing in rehabbing them as-is, or moving into these neighborhoods. Its one thing for historic structures that are old and beautiful and on a well traveled path, but V2V is tearing down scary, scary places that do nothing but represent our city’s decline and deterioration.”

I cited my work with Ayers Saint Gross on what we informally call ‘the Last Mile,’ defined as the segment of the Amtrak corridor as you travel into Penn Station from the east. Looking south from the train, the homes are blown out, vacant, dilapidated, and unwelcoming. I hypothesized that maybe it really isn’t all that bad to start anew if the memory of a place is so tainted. While this friend argued that vacant lots turned gardens and parks don’t garner the same weight as a revitalized home, I argued that perhaps the places need a new story to tell, and certainly plowing down these homes wasn’t ridding the city of its historic housing stock. As many of us know, Baltimore has many, many more rowhomes to choose from. Yes, this was selective destruction, but it wasn’t architectural eradication.

And yet our relationships to place are complex, and demolishing or transforming a space doesn’t mean we erase its memory. As a planner, I feel that history can either encourage or hinder the ease with which a place is redeveloped: a beautiful old mansion would be easier to redevelop than a home where someone was murdered. This argument came full circle last week when the Apex Theater was auctioned. As the last remaining adult theater in Baltimore, this structure has one hell of an institutional memory. Whatever this theater becomes, how long will it take for people to stop referring to it as “the old Apex Theater?” How long will it take me to stop referring to the Under Armour campus as “Tide Point”? And while many may roll their eyes and say, ‘let it go,’ is it really such a bad thing to remain connected with a place through what once was?

IMAGE CREDIT. Wikimedia Commons.

Subject over Object

By | Art & Social Change, Of Love and Concrete | 2 Comments

MoMA PS1 is a satellite institution of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in Long Island City. PS1’s mission is to “display the most experimental art in the world”.

Many things about it are boundary pushing. It does not glisten near the “plastic” likes of Time Square. It unassumingly melds into the grimy street environment of Queens. It does not posses its work. It merely provides a space for work to be experienced. The work is not obvious like the sensory overload of a room adorned by Mattisse, Picasso and Degas. It is deeper with subtle nuance and lasting impression. The artistry is not about the perfect brush stroke, impeccable implementation of color theory, or hours of technical craftsmanship. The artistry is about the concept and the process of creation. PS1 is a place to experience the spectrum of values that art has to offer. PS1 moves art from mere object to dense subject.

The current exhibit Expo1 at PS1 includes several installations that push subject over object.

Art is paradoxical:

Upon entering the re-purposed school building that houses PS1, one instantly notices the sound of water. It is not a trickle of water, and it is not a torrent of water. It is the recognizable sound of a stream of water falling into a pool. It is unexpected, yet oddly rhythmic and extremely compelling. In short order one passes by the source. Meg Webster in her work, “Pool,” has turned an interior room into a pond oasis! The mini-ecosytem is complete with three feet of water koi, rock, moss and vegetation. It is the outside world brought inside. The paradox is aesthetically pleasing. More importantly, the paradox gives us new perspective. The man-made natural setting in the man-made architectural setting forces us to see nature. It unabashedly shows how beautiful nature is, and compels us to take note on our next stroll through the woods. “Art” — as we commonly understand it — does not alone own beauty.

MEG WEBSTER. POOL. 1998/2013. INSTALLATION VIEW OF EXPO 1: NEW YORK AT MOMA PS1. PHOTO: MATTHEW SEPTIMUS.

MEG WEBSTER. POOL. 1998/2013. INSTALLATION VIEW OF EXPO 1: NEW YORK AT MOMA PS1. PHOTO: MATTHEW SEPTIMUS. http://www.MoMA PS1.org

Art is process:

There is no space that art cannot be experienced. The boiler room in the basement of PS1 houses several works of art. Part of Saul Melman’s work, “Central Governor,”  is immediate upon entry. He has enshrined parts of the behemoth boiler with gold! It screams for the attention it deserves. Soot turned to masterpiece. Nearby in a small alcove is a piece even more compelling. A one-foot-square shape colored by crayon. It is so simple it is overlooked. Sol Lewitt conceived Crayola Square. Yes the object is extremely trite. Anyone with a kindergarten education could complete it assuming they passed the test to color within the lines. But the object is not the focal point. If one read the statement near the work they would find discrete detailed instructions for the creation of the work. The art is the implementation of the strict instructions for the square. The art IS the process.

Saul Melman. Central Governor. 2010. Photo by Eva Qin. Courtesy the artist. http://www.MoMA PS1.org

Saul Melman. Central Governor. 2010. Photo by Eva Qin. Courtesy the artist. http://www.MoMA PS1.org

Sol LeWitt. Crayola Square. 1999. Photo by Matthew Septimus. Courtesy P.S.1 Contemporary Art Center. http://www.MoMA PS1.org

Sol LeWitt. Crayola Square. 1999. Photo by Matthew Septimus. Courtesy P.S.1 Contemporary Art Center. http://www.MoMA PS1.org

Art is simple:

The top floor of the warehouse is the administrative area of the institution. It is easy to just forgo the trip up the final flights of stairs to see the few works displayed there. It would be just as easy to pass by the imperfection in the bricks about 10 feet off the floor. This is a refurbished warehouse after all and shabby chic is part of the experience. However, if one stops and explores the small crater in the wall, one will see the light. Alan Saret’s work “The Hole at PS1 Fifth Solar Chthonoic Wall Temple” is merely a hole through the east facing exterior wall of the institution. The beautiful beam of light that shines through is like a delicate laser. It feels like the divine peeking at you, smiling, and telling you that all is right in this moment. And it is. A hole in a wall letting the abundance of the sky be felt is art and it is simple.

PS1 is not a typical museum filled with objects of awe and wonder. PS1 is much more. It is filled with beautiful things, repugnant things, unexpected things, and simple things. But the things are not the end. The end is what the things bring out in you. The end is your new perspective on life and new revelations about the world in which you live that life. The end is not the object, but the subject.

 

Summer: Sun, Humidity, and Hurricanes

By | Health, The Global Is Local | No Comments

Remember Sandy? She (or he) was barreling down on us not so long ago. There were recommendations to stockpile water for three to five days, BGE was pre-emptively cutting tree limbs that threatened wires, and I’m sure there was a run on Old Bay and Natty Boh in the supermarkets.

Image credit: USGS

The reason Sandy is now just a memory of a disaster that could have been (for most of us in Baltimore City, anyway) is that things turned out very differently than they could have. The storm turned away from us and instead focused it’s attention on our neighbors to the north.

What I heard most often in the days afterwards were variations on “We were so lucky!” Homes and lives were destroyed in New York and New Jersey. Entire hospitals were evacuated. Billions of dollars in damages are still being assessed, repaired, and replaced. Part of the extent of the damage has to do with the sheer density of the regions affected, of course, but Fells Point and Canton aren’t exactly ghost towns, and the Inner Harbor is far from a dilapidated dump that can be written off for the insurance money.

“Lucky” might be a bit of an overstatement, though. It’s certainly good that we didn’t get a direct hit, of course, but there are massive atmospheric forces at work that dictate the speed, direction, and overall countenance of storms.

Last October, I was wondering a couple of things as Sandy traipsed along the coast.

1. Why is everyone in such a tizzy? Doesn’t this happen all the time? We’re right near the coast!

2. What is Natty Boh?

The answer to number two became clear before long, although it has yet to make a substantial impression on me. Cheap beer that isn’t terrible is good to have available, though, so I don’t have any objections.

Number one, regarding tizzies, has only started to make sense in the (almost) year since then. First, Baltimoreans like to have strong reactions to weather, whether it’s complaints about the heat, driving like a fleet of grannies in a quarter inch of snow, or stockpiling for the apocalypse when a big storm approaches. Second, like I said earlier, there are some macro factors that affect the behavior of hurricanes. Atlantic hurricanes that move up the East coast typically follow a consistent, if broad, path that dog-legs North and East as it passes the mid-Atlantic region. This is why there has not yet been a direct hit on the city, despite the storm surge from Isabel that I still hear about sometimes. So although that general pattern was still predicted (see image above), that dog-leg would mostly be over land, and pass right over us, which would be unusual. Needless to say, Sandy decided to follow protocol and headed North and East instead.

Changes in the behavior of the Gulf Stream have the potential for throwing many of our normal prediction models for a loop. Along with hypothesized frigid temperatures in Europe, there are many questions about how future storms will behave, and whether past prediction models are adequate to assess risk in various places. Due to the effects of a little “theory” about global warming, the 100 or 500 year storms are now storms of our time, not of the distant future or past, and their behavior is becoming less predictable. Even a hurricane such as Sandy – large, strong, but not record breaking by most measures — had a storm surge that would have put much of the downtown area underwater including City Hall, the police headquarters, and of course most of Fells Point, Federal Hill, Canton, and Locust Point, among others.

If those aren’t compelling reasons for some serious consideration about how we invest in infrastructure, housing, and tourist destinations in places like the Inner Harbor, I don’t know what would be.

The Disappeared

By | The Good Plan | One Comment

Many years ago I lived in a third world country. It was only for a time, but time long enough that I lived with confidence. I walked with intent, had a routine, conversed comfortably with rickshaw drivers and gave directions to tourists. The city was a place of madness. Of beauty and filth and color. And to escape the noise and smog, I often found myself in a three story shop on the far east side of MG Road.

A glass window stretched across the top two stories of the building, and inside lived the color without the pollution of the streets: papers and fabrics, glass bottles, so many over-stimulating elements. I spent time browsing, appreciating the quiet, sitting at a cart in front of the building, writing and drinking chai, meeting friends. In 2010 I returned to the city, flip flopping my way anxiously down the road wearing the same backpack, moving quickly to get to the building embedded in my brain. I arrived at the corner and went too far east — doubling back, confused. I crossed the road to the south and turned back to get a more contextual view. Was my directional off? Memory gone?

The concrete building stood — but barely. The glass façade was shattered and rough shards hung from a single-nailed piece of plywood. The interior darkened, marble steps cracked — no chai seller or step sitting. The store was no longer, vacant, neglected, broken. And I cried. Right then and there in the road — because something I once loved so deeply about a place was left to rot. It was uncared for, and the neglect of something I once considered beautiful had broken my heart, and I projected so much of my sadness onto the city which couldn’t seem to get its act together.

It is this same sadness I’ve found the past several weeks as the crimes and killings in the City of Baltimore have permeated my twitter feed and exhausted my usual defensive stand on my hometown. It’s something far from my world of understanding and I can’t put together why no one has realized that what we are doing in the world of safety and preservation of place isn’t working.

In writing this weeks’ entry, I tried to correlate the brokenness with something from the past. Something that was once broken, but is, for the most part, no longer. In the 1970’s and 1980’s, Patterson Park was overrun with the bad things — the violence, graffiti, drugs, and vandalism. It began after World War II when families left urban areas for the American suburban dream, and neglect was reflected in broken and shattered park buildings. The Conservatory was the first to go, razed in 1948 under the premise of making sure nobody got hurt from all its broken windows. In 1970 and 1972, arsonists burned the bathhouse and the music hall. The Casino would burn in 1978.

The turnaround happened when locals started to give a damn. In 1993, the community joined forces with the Maryland Department of Recreation and Parks. Together they pioneered a $10 million capital improvement project master plan for the park and matched the formal requests with sweat equity. Between 2000-2005, over 500 trees were planted in the park. Regular park clean up days and organizations have made the space more defensible, allocating responsibility and setting out an achievable strategy to produce a positive place. Yes, there are still prostitutes, assaults, and crimes, but there are also families, picnics, and playgrounds. The kicker here is that the community worked to defend the park, whereas in my third world country, few people on the street could afford the goods inside, so the fight to save the store simply didn’t exist. The store had gotten into my soul as a refuge, but was simply another obstruction in the daily lives of others.

I’m also left to wonder about this past week’s 300 Man March. On July 5th, over 600 men walked ten miles across North Avenue and back in protest and awareness of the recent violence in Baltimore. I consider myself to be pretty up to date on Baltimore happenings, but also know my world is fairly insular. I didn’t hear anything about the 300 Man March until it was already in progress. I don’t know where advertising happened or how, so I can only imagine it reached the target population it was aiming for in the communities most ravaged by crime and violence this past few months.

I don’t know enough about the crime world to know if these 600 people can or will make a difference in the overall crime rate. In truth, I’m not sure if fixing behavior and fixing a place work the same way. You can’t weed out the bad and replant the good in people — at least, not in a few choice hours on a Saturday morning. All we can do, I suppose, is hope that the optimism is infectious, and hope the side effects of awareness are enough to stop that soul crushing feeling of finding something you once loved broken down and taken away. 

IMAGE CREDIT. [With thanks to Flickr user DataAngel for photo].

Silos

By | Health, Silo-Breakers, The Global Is Local | 3 Comments

Specialization- the process by which we have achieved space flight, agriculture, engineering, science, industry, efficiency, and ninjas.

Although specialization can lead to excellence, it can have unintended consequences or stem from conditions of disparity.

A meandering anecdote now follows: My wife and I took her grandfather to the Museum of Industry a few weeks ago. As a lifelong tinkerer, woodcrafter, history buff, and political activist, it was in many ways an ideal activity for his 91st birthday visit here in Baltimore. If you haven’t been there, I recommend it. The quality of the overall experience was very impressive, including a complimentary docent tour with admission. It was through the docent that we learned about the specialization that took place among the industry workers in Baltimore circa 1900.

Many of the examples of specialization were impressive — for instance, oyster shuckers could move at an amazing pace, as could all the other piece-workers responsible for prepping, canning, and labeling the products moving through the factories. This led to safe, affordable food that could be distributed for hundreds of miles to the significant benefit of the nation and the industries that operated the workshops and factories.

On the other hand, the labor that powered these engines of industry were often entire families, including children. In addition, some of the hardest work was the only work that African Americans could get hired for. Injury and death in turn of the century factories was a fact of life. Also, although useful, mastery of oyster-shuckery has limited transferability, and mobility to other, safer or more lucrative occupations was very difficult.

So, despite the wonderful things that specialization can and does produce, it can be caused by (and reinforce) racism and poverty.

A phrase that gets used a lot in social science, among other disciplines, is silos. The word evokes a stark image in my mind, isolated towers full of a single kind of stuff. Efficient? Yes, of course. But who wants just one kind of stuff? Diversity is essential for a complete experience. Despite my hereditary love of bread, I am certainly not about to limit my diet to strictly bread. [OK, add some cheese, and then maybe….]

Silos are perhaps an effective analogy for the partitioned experiences we have in our day-to-day lives as well. We have our professional personality, colleagues, and activities, and our private versions of the same. Little self-silos if you like. Groups of social contacts broken up by shared experiences and backgrounds — the group you exercise with, the group you party with, the group we have children’s playgroups with.

I’ve been thinking about silos and the efficacy of innovation for a couple weeks. I attended an event recently which brought together social entrepreneurs to problem-solve some issues that a half a dozen organizations brought to the table over a few hours. As is often my experience in Baltimore, there were people from very different backgrounds, different ages, men and women, all with a passion- via their own silo — to effect positive change in their city and the world.

Breaking down the walls of their own pet projects to contribute their energy toward projects outside their silos gave each participant a sense of the universe of other silos outside their own. At the end, however, one bold woman pointed out that the full diversity of the city was not well represented. The targets of many socially beneficial projects in Baltimore are the residents and environments in poor, predominantly African American neighborhoods, and yet members of these communities are very often neglected when the invitations go out. Not by intention, but as a result of the natural process of silos. Specialization, remember, tends to focus similar energy and resources into a self-contained cluster. The organizers, by the way, acknowledged the challenge and committed to a conscious effort toward broadening the population of participants.

I would like to suggest a similar challenge for each of us this week:

First, identify your silos. Where are you most comfortable? Who do you hang out with most often? How do you work toward your ideals?

Next pick one of those silos and break out of it for a day. Remember, you’re reading this because you have at least a passing interest in innovative, transformative social change. Switching brands of jelly does NOT count, even if it was made by a local organic producer. Bring someone into a new social circle; allow their views to inform the activity, conversation, and menu. Get outside your comfort zone, talk to someone you disagree with, and finally, share your experience with others on digital and interpersonal social networks.

From Sprawl to City

By | The Good Plan | One Comment

These places we call ‘cities’ are evolutions. Before bicycle lanes and green roofs, cities were a collection of cars and soot and dense, dense housing. It really wasn’t that long ago we decided to clean up this density and reform it into a desirable place to be. After reading Joel Kotkins’ opinion that urban sprawl defines the next future city, I can’t help but agree — for the most part.

The cities of the 1980’s were realms where infrastructure existed and where people lived and worked around inconvenience. These dense, dirty cities were our city 1.0. They were conglomerates of action before organization. We left the 1.0 when we started to care about polar bears and recycling. We took this existing mess of people and started to turn it into a functional pattern of streetscapes and movement, ultimately moving from City 1.0 to City 2.0 — where integrated public spaces and programmed parks and living walls made us happy. The City 2.0 is an intentional city — the spaces purposefully designed in a way that satisfies the resident.

Before our obsession with walkability and functional public transit, the white picket fence and the backyard were indicative of the American Dream. Those who could afford to, fled the 1.0 and set up their own hubs of cookie cutter homes and strip malls. These suburbs were rich in infrastructure and relocated businesses — anxious to take advantage of affordable rent and spatial flexibility. The suburbs were hubs for people who had money and owned cars, and while urban planners may hate the big box store and the Pleasantville housing developments, these places were primed for the next evolution in space creation. The people are there, so at some point — they’ll demand that same purposeful planning, or so I imagine.

Houston, Charlotte and Phoenix — the three cities identified by Kotkins as our ‘future cities’ — are really just cities in transition, or in the calm before the storm. They’ve acquired the mass of people and have turned into destinations, but I would imagine there will be a continued push by city residents for the same amenities and qualities of convenience that exist in Boston, Chicago or San Francisco. The elements of a good city — including transit, local food, high air quality, and walkable access to amenities are attractive to the younger generation, who are the source of employment and new investment dollars. At some point, I would presume the masses of these sprawled cities will not want to drive everywhere they need to go.

We don’t often get the opportunity to watch a new city being built, but we do have an example from which we can work. Tony Hsieh is rebuilding Las Vegas idea by idea, to a 2.0. Hsieh is the CEO of Zappos, and in the spirit of desired collaboration and enhanced communication, he relocated his business to Nevada. In addition, he committed millions of dollars into city planning — placemaking both physically and culturally. By creating spaces for chance meetings, keeping people on street level, and encouraging residents to sell their cars, Hsieh is said to be creating the city as a start-up and encouraging a work-live-play urban area.

Hsieh is bringing the people, now its just creating a place for all of them to be happy. He is, in essence, compounding the sprawl into a sustainable urban living experience. Most recently Fast Company produced an article on Project 100 — Hsieh’s latest attempt to create the ideal. In Project 100, members pay $400 per month in exchange for a car service, access to one of 100 car shares, 1 of 100 bikes, and use of 100 shuttle buses with 100 stops around he city. As we watch Las Vegas go through the necessary transformations to make it one of the more evolved urban areas, we can watch sprawl dissipate into consolidated prosperity. As they exist today, the suburbs are not going to be acceptable as the new city, but they most certainly act as a template primed for investment.

Waiting for Change

IMAGE CREDIT. Prekons