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ERIC PREVEN’S NOTEBOOK - Let this be what it is — not a demand, not a warning, not a pitch deck, policy brief, development plan, or insurance claim. Just a gift of ideas.
From someone just crazy and lucky enough to have lived along the Pacific — where the beach is public, and Old Malibu Road runs as a lazy sliver of asphalt between bluff and ocean, known mostly to locals, pelicans, and very lucky dog — to anyone else trying to hold their ground in a place that, when the wind rises, whispers the truth: none of this was ever really yours.
This isn’t about the last fire. Or the next one. It’s about what comes after — when the helicopters vanish, the ash settles, and the silence thickens. When your neighbors are gone, your mailbox is a melted husk, and the only people reaching out are calling to buy your lot... at a “special rate, just for you.”
No one can truly know what it means to lose everything… unless they do. It’s not a failure of imagination or empathy. It’s just math: the number of years, memories, meals, dogs, chairs, socks, arguments, plants, sunsets. The dust of your life, gone — and only you can feel the shape of what that was.
But maybe that’s where the next life begins.
In Japan, there are stones.
A stone in Aneyoshi, Japan, warns the next generation.
Carved centuries ago and placed along the coast, they bear one simple message:
“Do not build below this point.”
Not a rule. Not a fine. A memory. Etched in rock by people who had seen what the sea could do, and wanted their descendants to avoid the same heartbreak.
“High dwellings are the peace and harmony of our descendants. Remember the calamity of the great tsunamis.”
Here in Malibu, in the Palisades, in the hills above Topanga and the canyons of Monte Nido — what markers will we leave?
A red tag and a case number?
A QR code linked to a FEMA reimbursement form?
Or something older than bureaucracy — something ceremonial, human, and strangely useful?
Maybe it’s a bell that only rings in certain winds. Maybe it’s a grove of slow-growing, low-burning trees. Maybe it’s a stone, not to warn, but to remind: “They rebuilt here, carefully.”
Whatever it is, it should be offered the same way this is:
No strings. No premium. No consulting fee.
Just the gift of memory.
Because the land won’t forget us. But it may forgive us — if we show we’ve listened.
SCENE: The Ceremonial Brainstorm
Location: A canyon amphitheater. The ground is scorched. The air smells like bureaucracy and eucalyptus.
The Joint City-County Emergency Working Group on Fire Memory and Forward-Looking Planning is in session. Folding chairs. A podium. Lanyards. Branded water bottles made from recycled sirens.
Supervisor Horvath opens with a land acknowledgment:
“We honor the ancestral lands of the Tongva people and one of Winston’s favorite off-leash areas.”
Winston barks. The microphone feeds back. A County Counsel, seated nearby produces a liability waiver and a dog bag
Mayor Karen Bass emerges in a puff of solemnity.
“This is a moment for partnership. Public. Private. Cross-sector. Trans-silo. We’re rebuilding empathy in a trauma-informed frame.”
Everyone nods. No one understands.
Katy Yaroslavsky in a fire-retardant tracksuit:
“Any Number Ones? Number Twos? Feelings?”
Nobody speaks. "Wonderful." A eucalyptus branch falls. Without missing a beat, a Deputy City Attorney approaches with a release of liability and a clipboard.
DA Nathan Hochman, wearing his old DOJ windbreaker and a rugged constitutional stare, addresses the crowd:
“If the ocean failed to suppress a wildfire, we will bring charges.”
Applause. A hawk drops a feather.
Fred Gaines, the Developer King, pulls back a curtain made of flame-retardant drapery:
“We honor the past by rebuilding it. Slightly taller. With underground parking and an Equinox.”
Applause from the Planning Commission drone operator.
A County Arts Commissioner proposes a site-specific fire opera.
“The audience moves through different burn zones while the flames whisper regrets in Latin.” General agreement that this could be grant-eligible. Someone asks if it’s bilingual.
A rep from SoCal Edison joins via Zoom.
His screen freezes midway through:
“We take full resp—”
The feed cuts out.
Everyone thanks him for his transparency.
A young Tongva actor, hired to facilitate equity conversations about fuel loads, begins weeping halfway through.
“The land never lied. We just stopped listening.”
Silence. A single lizard nods.
Smart Speaker arrives late.
He’s flanked by three dogs — all off-leash, all perfectly behaved.
He’s carrying two things:
A box of ash and a bucket labeled truth.
He steps up to the mic.
“This ash is not Uncle Blair, though I understand the confusion. It’s a small memento of stuff retrieved from my brother's well, not house, from my brother's lot and chimney, you know, before the wind shifted.”
People stir.
The timekeeper clears her throat.
“We always knew this could happen. We should’ve done what the Japanese did — marked the land. Left stones. Warnings. Something.
But we didn’t.
So I brought this instead.”
He raises the bucket.
“My recommendation is inside.”
He is removed.
Returns via Zoom.
The background is static, but the dogs are visible.
He says, calmly:
“Some people build monuments. Others just try not to forget.
Fools remember because they must. Everyone else trades the ocean for high-speed internet — and moves to the Valley.”
A task force is formed.
It is never heard from again.
Later that week, Smart Speaker is spotted driving through Malibu Canyon and heading down PCH past the charred remains for the first time since the fire.
The sun is low.
Three dogs ride in the car — one with its head out the window, one curled up on the front seat, with the Corgi sitting on top of him, staring straight ahead like it knows something.
The box of ash is in the wayback.
The bucket labeled truth is beside it, still sloshing faintly with whatever can’t be said out loud.
No press. No plan. Just a drive.
The ocean glints like it’s trying to apologize.
The land, scorched, quiet, listens without promise.
To those who leave: safe travels.
To those who stay:
Don’t rebuild. Reimagine.
Mark the land. Speak the truth.
And love the coast like it remembers everything.
Because it does.
County Fair:
I see we’ve packed a few weeks’ worth of governance into one bloated Tuesday tomorrow — 56 items, proclamations for every letter of the alphabet, and a generous sprinkle of sole-source contracts that reek of warmed-over justifications and congestion pricing.
Let me start with a heartfelt mazel tov on the $9.9 million for the Hollywood Bowl shuttle — because honestly, it is one of the only things the county does well.
Another Day, Another Waiver — $8,664 here, $4,400 there… by Item 54-E, there was just a rumor that one day a parking kiosk would be named after one of my dogs. No plaque.
And I must commend the Board on the Kedren deal — $90 million, sole source, innovation capital, and mental health all in one sentence. That’s hard to do without inhaling fumes from an emergency waiver form.
Also, I noticed we're taking another break next week. No Board meeting on May 20. Is that a self-care day? An undisclosed off-site? New York?
Smart Speaker: It is our business.
County Counsel (off mic): Get him out of here.
But before I go, I’d like to gently suggest that in addition to commemorating Employee Wellness Through the Arts Day, maybe we could try Public Trust Through Transparency Day. I brought a commemorative bucket.
The next meeting is scheduled for May 27, 2025.LA BOS
Full agenda & participation info: https://bos.lacounty.gov/board-meeting-agendas/
(Eric Preven is a Studio City-based TV writer-producer, award-winning journalist, and longtime community activist who won two landmark open government cases in California.)
