Irvine is the last city in the world, the largest and best managed master-planned community in the world, on the most valuable real estate in the world, and the most controlled in America, the closest you can get in pre-collapse to a fascist city-state—the great anonymous overlords of the Irvine Company is the LDS Church of real-estate—they will master-plan an exact duplicate of Irvine on the Moon and Mars and on the infinite ringworlds. Irvine is also the strongest concentration of "design" in the world, it's Brasilia and Chandigargh but actually successful; because the academics of architecture is perverted and corrupt, karmically cursed from abandoning Christopher Alexander for Peter Eisenenman's postmodernism, they cannot see it, but it is a masterpiece of urbanism and landscape design, a strongest collection of designed architecture and landscape of anywhere on the planet. Irvine is boring by design; Fallout 1's cut content had Irvine renamed Utopia, with the perfect white fence America suburbia encircled by a great Israeli grade wall and its denizens enforced into perfect order at gunpoint in a robot police state. This is a good thing, and the city is being flooded with high caste asians simply because they have good taste and real-estate sense; and the bet will pay off when commonplace autonomous cars solves "public transport" and all of tax-paying America hapa flights into enclave exit suburbias. When we level-2'd Remilia from the distributed groupchat-thinktank productizing the hyperfinancialized accelerationist memeplex into the planetary-industrial conglomerate "startup" we considered various locations many previously trialed in work-stays—NYC, Austin, SF, Lisbon Portugal, Fussa Tokyo, Da Nang Vietnam, Tallin Estonia. Something we learned is "nomads" and "expats" and all forms of "travel lovers" are no different than your average tasteless urban coastal transplant, and like all other consumerist lifestyle normies, have terrible taste and negative value opinions, an existence defined by a hologram of social media identity. You do not want the shitty nose drugs, the bad cocktails, the sex apps and food apps, the doordashed PREP and homeless screechers and sysco food slop. You do not want the situationship you do not want the polycule you do not want the chlamydia and the 10-body credit card debt gf and the beta provider bf, you do not want to the lifestyle of the urban homosexual. You do not want to spend 8 hours exactly a day every day in a job you hate while your "real life" turns on only in the space outside in your doomscrolling and consuming with the only moments of surface air is when you commiserate in loneliness with other aimless despondents. What you want is a house with a lawn and a white picket fence and a suit with a watch and a clean shave—or jack boots and a jumpsuit—involved in a great enterprise with other militant men, each with a family and children and a golden retriever who only ever visit the city from behind a bulletproof cybertruck for show and a dinner. And until you have that, you want a 3 tatami room with only a cot and a gas burner and a computer and a delirious drive to get there and hold onto it forever while the rest of the world burns down in apocalyptica, but you will be fine, because we're going to put up a great big wall behind us and them. This is not the time to be distracted and to lay down and wait to die.