I hang my hat these days up the hill and across the street from Laguna Audubon, built by award-winning creekbed fillers and giant lego stackers. A headstrong corporate hodgepodge "preserved" half the land only because they could not glue condominiums to a 90-degree cliff. The houses and whatnot have an inch or two between them, crouched flat in the ravine or perched close together like beige pigeons on the mesa overhead. A wide swath of asphalt pours down from the top to the bottom; this is the north end of Aliso Creek Road, ending at El Toro. Anyway, the tiniest one-bedrooms sell for over $320 thousand; I know because I toured one last spring. It was about 600 square feet inside, looked like the shadowy lobby of a dentist's office and made my brain itch. All of Aliso Viejo, the master-planned community over yonder, is like this: "wilderness areas" scattered amidst cinched-up architecture, all light pastels and cream walls, SUVs, dog parks, adobe churches and towne centers (they add the "e") and, incredibly, bike lanes. I don't know who slipped those past the muckamucks, but thanks.