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This California city lost thousands of homes to fire. Santa Rosa’s rebuilding has lessons for L.A.

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This California city lost thousands of homes to fire. Santa Rosa’s rebuilding has lessons for L.A.

The sky above their newly built homes was clear, and the ground beneath their feet reassuringly soggy from recent winter rains. But as residents in the Coffey Park neighborhood made their way to a community gathering on a recent evening — passing one yard after another devoid of trees or brush or anything readily flammable — many said they still have flashbacks to a night of smoke and flames and fear.

It’s been more than seven years since homes in this Santa Rosa neighborhood were incinerated by the Tubbs fire, which swept across Napa and Sonoma counties in a matter of hours before jumping six lanes of the 101 Freeway. The residents of Coffey Park — about 9,000 people — were roused from their beds in a panic and fled through flames and whipping embers. In some cases, people walked miles to safety, with singed pets struggling in their arms and only the clothes on their backs.

A scorched lawn statue stands amid the rubble of the Coffey Park neighborhood in Santa Rosa in October 2017.

(Luis Sinco / Los Angeles Times)

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Five neighborhood residents died in the fire, among 22 total in Sonoma County. At the time, it was the most destructive fire in California history — although that record would quickly be broken, and then broken again in the coming years.

Fire wasn’t supposed to do what it did that night. No one had predicted the flames would move so fast, or consume so much of this city of 175,000 and surrounding communities. No one could have predicted, either, that Santa Rosa would manage to build back so quickly, or that residents would say that, in some ways, their communities emerged stronger: safer from fire and more closely knit.

Just more than a week into Los Angeles’ ordeal by fire, the neighbors of Coffey Park were gathering in Tricia Woods’ rebuilt kitchen to raise funds to send to fire victims in L.A. They also wanted to send a message: You can’t imagine it now, but it is possible to recover from this.

Yes, the aftermath is hard: “I moved seven times in three years,” Diane Farris said of the uncertainty and dislocation.

And you never get over the trauma: “I still have a go bag packed,” Anita Rackerby confided, as her neighbors nodded in recognition.

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But they knew from shared experience that communities can, indeed, rise from ashes.

A man opens the sliding glass door of a home under construction in Santa Rosa.

Santa Rosa streamlined the process for rebuilding neighborhoods leveled in the 2017 Tubbs fire.

(Paul Kuroda / For The Times)

People in Santa Rosa are acutely aware that they are in the unenviable position of having hosted one of California’s first and most brutal megafires in this new age of unpredictable burns.

On the night of Oct. 8, 2017, the Tubbs fire ignited near the town of Calistoga. Within five hours, the blaze — spitting embers that helped it leapfrog in all directions — had traveled 12 miles, over the hills that separate Napa and Sonoma counties and down into Santa Rosa. Then, it did the unthinkable, jumping the freeway and burning through homes that were viewed as being at low risk for wildfire.

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Santa Rosa has been in a state of recovery ever since. Along the way, some residents have become unofficial disaster consultants, jetting off to scenes of devastation around the country — to Paradise, which the Camp fire eviscerated in 2018; and Lahaina, the Maui community that burned to the ground in 2023 — to counsel people on how to pick up the pieces.

A grassy lot is all that remains of a house burned in the Tubbs fire.

A grassy lot is all that remains of a home lost in the Tubbs fire.

(Paul Kuroda / For The Times)

Gabe Osburn, Santa Rosa’s planning director, said the L.A.-area fires were still raging when he got his first call from representatives of the city of Los Angeles. The question was simple: What do we do?

Osburn was Santa Rosa’s deputy director of city services in 2017. He found out his city was on fire the way most residents did: He woke to a blaring alarm.

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His house, just outside Coffey Park, was filled with smoke, and it had a distinct smell that he recognized as wildfire. He glanced out his second-story window and saw a terrifying orange glow over his neighborhood. He and his wife grabbed what they could, which included their three cats, and fled to a relative’s house in southern Sonoma County.

Then, he reported to work.

It wasn’t long before the scope of the disaster became clear. Twenty-two people dead. And tens of thousands were homeless. With more than 3,000 homes burned within city limits — and more than 5,000 in the surrounding area — Santa Rosa had just lost 5% of its housing stock.

In a city that already had a housing crunch, this was a crisis. Where were all the people whose homes had burned going to live? And given that many of them were relatively wealthy, would their search for housing have the domino effect of pushing other renters out? What could or should government officials do about it?

Amid the charred rubble, residents were starting to ask themselves the same questions.

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A cuddly dog licks a boy's face, while his parents look on smiling.

Brad Sherwood, center, with his wife, Brandy, and son Grant in front of their rebuilt home in Santa Rosa.

(Paul Kuroda / For The Times)

In Larkfield Estates, a neighborhood just north of the city limits, Brad Sherwood and his wife, Brandy, had long reassured their children that they had nothing to fear from wildfire. “I live on a valley floor,” he said of his thinking. “This is not the wild/urban interface” that is prone to burning. “They can stop it.”

He was wrong, as so many others have been in recent years when predicting what wildfires would do based on what they have done in the past.

Sherwood said he “will never forget looking up this canyon as I’m running from my house, seeing fire tornadoes ripping down” toward him. And yet, he added: “On Day 1, my wife and I said, we are rebuilding. This is our home.”

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But first, they had to find a place to live. And of course, they were dealing with insurance, and the hundreds of things they had to account for in order to get paid.

And life didn’t stop. Both he and his wife had jobs, and they had to take care of their children, who had been through the ordeal of watching their home burn down.

An elegant dining table made from a walnut tree that was burned in the Tubbs fire.

Brad and Brandy Sherwood had a dining table made from a signature walnut tree on their property that was damaged in the Tubbs fire.

(Paul Kuroda / For The Times)

He and his wife decided they would “divide and conquer.” Brandy would take the “front-line approach,” taking the lead with the insurance company and, eventually, the builder who constructed their new home. Brad “would focus on community outreach.”

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“I knew that if we weren’t working together as a community, we would not be successful as a whole,” he said.

In the weeks after the fire, he built a website that would serve as an information hub for Larkfield Estates, whose residents were now scattered across the county and beyond. The community began holding neighborhood meetings and inviting local officials. The area supervisor, James Gore, created a “block captain” program for burned-out neighborhoods, to simplify communication and allow neighbors to speak collectively.

The community developed a “needs assessment.” In addition to rebuilding homes, recovery would require debris removal, reconstruction of power, water and sewer systems and fixing streets.

They also needed to figure out how to efficiently rebuild. Should every family find its own contractor? Or should the city bring in home builders who could mass-produce homes, which would be cheaper and faster?

And along the way, Sherwood said, something remarkable happened: The neighbors, mostly friendly, but often distant, got to know one another better and began to trust and rely on each other.

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Three miles south, in Coffey Park, a similar effort was unfolding. They called the group “Coffey Strong.” They had a website. They held meetings with elected leaders, home builders, city officials.

And then, eight months after the Tubbs fire, another blaze ignited in nearby Lake County. Smoke drifted to Santa Rosa, traumatizing many.

Woods, the woman who summoned folks to her rebuilt home last week as Los Angeles burned, was among those who felt shaken. But she decided to do something about it. She blasted out a message to her neighbors telling them she would be sitting in a camp chair next to the burned-out husk of her home. She would have wine. Everyone was welcome.

Coffey Park residents gather on the street in 2018.

This October 2018 photo shows Coffey Park residents gathering for “Wine Wednesday” as the neighborhood was rebuilding from the Tubbs fire.

(Los Angeles Times)

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A neighborhood tradition was born. They began to meet every Wednesday evening. At first the gatherings took place in the street, amid the rubble. Eventually, as neighbors slowly rebuilt, they gathered for housewarming parties.

“We didn’t have many friends in the neighborhood before this,” said Melissa Geissinger, who was seven months pregnant when her house burned down and endured the trauma of having her newborn baby go through open-heart surgery while the family was displaced.

By 2020, just three years after the fire, more than 80% of the neighborhood homes lost in the fire had been rebuilt and families had moved back in.

Osburn, Santa Rosa’s planning director, said the city played a key role in making that possible. “We made this commitment to the community that we would understand where they were getting stuck and implement creative solutions to remove the impediment,” he said.

That meant a range of actions, including coordinating with state, federal and county officials in the early days of recovery to help people get their feet under them, stripping back discretionary regulations and processing permits within days or hours instead of months.

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The signs from the Tubbs fire are still visible in Santa Rosa for those who know how to read them.

In the Fountaingrove neighborhood, in the hills east of downtown, many replacement homes are still under construction. And some lots are still empty, the grass from winter rains wafting in the wind, along with the sharp echoes of hammers and nail guns.

In Larkfield Estates, Sherwood and his family have moved into their new home. The old walnut tree that used to shade his frontyard has been transformed into an elegant dining room table. Many of his neighbors, also returned, did the same thing with their trees.

In some ways, the neighborhood has more amenities than it did before. It finally got a sewer system so residents could move off septic; the county offered loans at a low interest rate to make it affordable. A new park, which the community is helping to raise funds for, is coming. And there is a new sidewalk on busy Mark West Springs Road so children can more safely walk to school.

But across the street from Sherwood’s gorgeous new house — white with dark trim and cheerful flowers in the frontyard — is still an empty lot, a forlorn swimming pool surrounded by chain-link fencing the only reminder of what used to be. A plastic chair that blew into the pool the night of the fire is still there; the water protected it from the flames, and no one has touched it since.

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An upended plastic chair floats in a pool surrounded by chain-link fencing.

For now, this pool is all that remains of a property lost in the Tubbs fire.

(Paul Kuroda / For The Times)

In Coffey Park, there are still a few houses under construction, but the biggest reminder of fire is in the landscaping: very few big trees, and yard after yard ornamented with rocks and other materials that can’t burn.

At the wine gathering, one person after another said they hoped the people of Los Angeles could take hope from Coffey Park.

Until the fire, said Rackerby, “I lived here for 30 years, and I didn’t know the people across the street.” Now, she said, she feels like she knows everyone. In the months before the local park was refurbished, she opened up her yard as a play area for neighborhood children. She also helped her neighbors make mosaic artwork using scorched jewelry, dishes and other sifted wreckage from their homes — something to memorialize what they had lost.

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Standing nearby was Geissinger, whose son is now a playful 7-year-old. She recently published a young adult novel, “Nothing Left But Dust,” that includes themes about a fire. Coming through the blaze, she said, gave her the courage to pursue her dream of being a writer.

Michelle Poggi, who seven years ago escaped with her husband on foot, walking three miles with their cat through smoke and burning embers, echoed that sense of what’s possible.

“This community really did take something horrible, and it’s kind of like we all found the silver linings where we could,” she said. Her neighbors nodded in agreement.

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Commentary: In two new court cases, judges find that AI does not have human intelligence

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Commentary: In two new court cases, judges find that AI does not have human intelligence

It’s becoming clearer with every passing day that the only people making a serious effort to come to grips with the implications of artificial intelligence for society aren’t legislators, or business leaders, or AI promoters themselves. They’re judges.

Indeed, in recent weeks, judges in two federal cases have drawn a line that seems to have eluded many others contemplating AI. The cases relate to copyright law and attorney-client privilege.

In both cases, the judges have effectively declared that AI bots are not human. They don’t have rights reserved for people, and their outputs don’t deserve to be treated as though they come from human intelligence or have any special high-tech standing.

Must invention remain exclusively human, or can autonomous computational systems genuinely originate ideas?

— Artist and computer scientist Stephen Thaler

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There’s more to those cases than that. Both cases, including one that got as far as the Supreme Court, underscore the determination of AI promoters and uses to infiltrate the new technology deeper into society.

Start with the more recent case. On Monday, the Supreme Court declined to take up a lawsuit in which artist and computer scientist Stephen Thaler tried to copyright an artwork that he acknowledged had been created by an AI bot of his own invention. That left in place a ruling last year by the District of Columbia Court of Appeals, which held that art created by non-humans can’t be copyrighted.

The case revolved around a 2012 painting titled “A Recent Entrance to Paradise,” depicting train tracks running under a bridge and disappearing into vegetation. Thaler wrote in his application for a copyright that the “author” of the work was his “Creativity Machine,” an AI tool, and that the work was “created autonomously by machine.”

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The appellate ruling didn’t engage in artistic criticism, but the work’s artificial origin might be manifest to the discerning eye — its landscape is busy yet indistinct, sort of a melange of green and purple, and the framing doesn’t have any artistic logic — the eye doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be following. But Thaler says it’s the AI bot’s creation and wasn’t generated in response to any user prompt.

In any event, for Judge Patricia A. Millett, who wrote the opinion for a unanimous three-judge panel, the case wasn’t a close one. She cited longstanding regulations of the Copyright Office requiring that “for a work to be copyrightable, it must owe its origin to a human being.”

Millett noted that Thaler hadn’t bothered to conceal the non-human origin of “A Recent Entrance,” acknowledging in court papers that the painting “lacks human authorship.” She rejected Thaler’s argument, as had the federal trial judge who first heard the case, that the Copyright Office’s insistence that the author of a work must be human was unconstitutional. The Supreme Court evidently agreed.

Thaler told me he didn’t see the Supreme Court’s turndown as a “legal defeat.” In a LinkedIn post about the case, he wrote that the decision “represents a philosophical milestone — one that exposes how deeply our intellectual property system struggles to confront autonomous machine creativity.”

As that suggests, Thaler believes we shouldn’t distinguish how we view human creations from machine outputs. “Intelligence, creativity, and invention are not limited to human products,” he told me by email. Autonomous computational systems such as his AI program, he said, “can generate these functions independently.”

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Millett’s ruling actually opened the door to admitting AI into the copyright world — but only when it’s used as a tool by a human author. What set Thaler’s case apart from those, she wrote, was his insistence that his AI bot was the “sole author of the work” (emphasis hers), “and it is undeniably a machine, not a human being.”

That brings us to the second case, which involved the question of whether an AI bot’s work should be protected under attorney-client privilege. Federal Judge Jed S. Rakoff of New York ruled, concisely, “The answer is no.”

As I’ve written in the past, Rakoff is one of our most percipient jurists about the impact of new technologies on the law. In his occasional essays for the New York Review of Books, he’s examined how a secret AI algorithm has skewed the sentencing of criminal defendants (especially Black defendants), how cryptocurrency advocates have made a tangle of existing laws on fraud, and how the misuse of cognitive neuroscience has resulted in convictions based on false memories.

In other words, Rakoff isn’t a judge you should try snowing with technological flapdoodle.

The case involved one Bradley Heppner, who was indicted by a federal grand jury for allegedly looting $150 million from a financial services company he chaired. Heppner pleaded innocent and was released on $25-million bail. The case is pending.

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According to a ruling Rakoff issued on Feb. 17, the issue before him concerned exchanges that Heppner had with Claude, the chatbot developed by the AI firm Anthropic, written versions of which were seized by the FBI when it executed a search warrant of Heppner’s property.

Knowing that an indictment was in the offing, Heppner had consulted Claude for help on a defense strategy. His lawyers asserted that those exchanges, which were set forth in written memos, were tantamount to consultations with Heppner’s lawyers; therefore, his lawyers said, they were confidential according to attorney-client privilege and couldn’t be used against Heppner in court. (They also cited the related attorney work product doctrine, which grants confidentiality to lawyers’ notes and other similar material.)

That was a nontrivial point. Heppner had given Claude information he had learned from his lawyers, and shared Claude’s responses with his lawyers.

Rakoff made short work of this argument. First, he ruled, the AI documents weren’t communications between Heppner and his attorneys, since Claude isn’t an attorney. All such privileges, he noted, “require, among other things, ‘a trusting human relationship,’” say between a client and a licensed professional subject to ethical rules and duties.

“No such relationship exists, or could exist, between an AI user and a platform such as Claude,” Rakoff observed.

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Second, he wrote, the exchanges between Heppner and Claude weren’t confidential. In its terms of use, Anthropic claims the right to collect both a user’s queries and Claude’s responses, use them to “train” Claude, and disclose them to others.

Finally, he wasn’t asking Claude for legal advice, but for information he could pass on to his own lawyers, or not. Indeed, when prosecutors tested Claude by asking whether it could give legal advice, the bot advised them to “consult with a qualified attorney.”

In his ruling, Rakoff did make an effort to address the broader questions judges face in dealing with AI. “Only three years after its release,” he wrote, “one prominent AI platform is being used by more than 800 million people worldwide every week. Yet the implications of AI for the law are only beginning to be explored.”

He concluded that “generative artificial intelligence “presents a new frontier in the ongoing dialogue between technology and the law….But AI’s novelty does not mean that its use is not subject to longstanding legal principles, such as those governing the attorney-client privilege and the work product doctrine.”

In this case and elsewhere, Rakoff has shown a superb grasp of technology issues. In his 2021 essay about the AI algorithm capable of sending people to jail, he put his finger on the factor that makes the very term “artificial intelligence” a misnomer.

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The term, he wrote, tends to “conceal the importance of the human designer….It is the designer who determines what kinds of data will be input into the system and from what sources they will be drawn. It is the designer who determines what weights will be given to different inputs and how the program will adjust to them. And it is the designer who determines how all this will be applied to whatever the algorithm is meant to analyze.”

He’s right. That why judges have had so much trouble determining whether the AI engineers feeding information into chatbots to make it seem like they’re “creative” and even “sentient” are infringing the copyrights of the original creators of that information, or creating something new.

The problem is that they’re asking the wrong question. Everything an AI bot spews out is, at more than a fundamental level, the product of human creativity. The AI bots are machines, and portraying them as though they’re thinking creatures like artists or attorneys doesn’t change that, and shouldn’t.

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As gas prices rise, California gets punched harder at the pump than other states

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As gas prices rise, California gets punched harder at the pump than other states

Californians are feeling more pain at the pump than any other state as the conflict with Iran pushes up prices.

Spencer Shearer was filling up his Nissan Sentra on Friday morning at the Chevron station in Brentwood near San Vicente and Montana avenues and paying a rate higher than almost anywhere else in the country: $5.55 per gallon.

“It sucks,” Shearer said as he watched his bill on the pump click toward $50.

With the continued conflict in and around Iran, gas prices are rising. In the Los Angeles area and a few places around the San Francisco Bay Area, the cost of gas has cracked $5-per-gallon again and is even tipping toward $6 in a few places.

The spreading conflict in the Persian Gulf has had a predictable but unwelcome impact on California drivers. Californians usually pay far more for gas than people in other states.

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Its pole position on prices is continuing with the latest surge.

The average cost of a gallon of regular gas in California is the most expensive in the country at $4.91, up 6% from a week ago and 11% from a month ago, according to AAA. The nationwide average is $3.32 per gallon.

The conflict with Iran has strangled movement through the Persian Gulf and catapulted the price of a barrel of oil.

The prices in California are higher than in other states because of higher taxes and stricter requirements for cleaner, more expensive gas that pollutes less. This has been a festering issue not only for the industry but also for consumers.

Fuel marketers, gas station owners and some voters have blamed Gov. Gavin Newsom’s policies.

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Gas prices at a Shell station on Foothill Boulevard.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Newsom told regulators in 2021 to stop issuing fracking permits and phase out oil extraction by 2045. He also signed a bill allowing local governments to block the construction of oil and gas wells. He seemed to ease his stance last year and signed a bill allowing up to 2,000 new oil wells per year through 2036 in Kern County, which produces about three-fourths of the state’s crude oil.

As a result of the policies that seem aimed at punishing oil producers, California has seen a steady decline in crude oil production, making it more reliant on oil and gasoline supplies outside the state.

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In 2024, only 23% of the crude oil refined in the state was pumped in California, with 13% from Alaska and 63% from elsewhere in the world, including about 30% from the Middle East, according to the Western States Petroleum Assn.

The primary reason gas prices in California are high is that refinery closures are reducing local supply while demand has remained high, said Zachary Leary, chief lobbyist at the Western States Petroleum Assn.

“Geopolitical events … show and highlight how fragile it is here in California,” he said.

California’s special gasoline blends are increasingly imported from overseas and can require more than a month to transport, he added.

Supply bottlenecks have been exacerbated by recent refinery closures, including the Phillips 66 refinery in Wilmington in October and the idling and planned closure of the Valero refinery in Benicia, which reduced refining capacity in the state by close to 20%.

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It is hard to predict how long this spike in prices will stay, said Severin Borenstein, faculty director of the Energy Institute at UC Berkeley’s Haas School of Business.

“We don’t know whether the war will widen or end quickly,” said Borenstein. “Those things will drive the price of crude.”

At the Brentwood gas station, product manager Conner Uretsky, 30, waited as his partner refueled her Toyota Prius ahead of a trip to Palm Springs. Lately, he said, surging fuel costs have made him think twice about going on road trips.

Uretsky, who moved to Los Angeles from the East Coast about six years ago, said he was initially shocked by the region’s high cost of living.

“Gas prices are crazy,” he said.

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Paula, a writer who declined to share her last name, said she was “furious” at President Trump’s decision to start a war with Iran, as well as his recent actions in Venezuela and threats against Greenland and Cuba.

“If you look at who’s paying for this war, we are,” she said, pointing to the fuel price flip sign as she waited for her Volvo hybrid SUV to refuel.

Shearer says he has to be more careful with his gas budget. The business analyst tries to find the least expensive gas near his home in Los Angeles. Still, he’s gotten used to California’s high prices.

“It feels almost normal to be paying this amount,” he said.

Times staff writer Laurence Darmiento contributed to this report.

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Labubu maker Pop Mart is opening U.S. headquarters in Culver City

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Labubu maker Pop Mart is opening U.S. headquarters in Culver City

Pop Mart, the Chinese toymaker known for its collectible Labubu dolls, reportedly plans to open a new office building in Culver City as it seeks to expand its North American presence.

The 22,000-square-foot office will serve as Pop Mart’s new U.S. headquarters, according to real estate data provider CoStar, which earlier reported the deal.

Pop Mart, founded in 2010 in Beijing, is credited with fueling the frenzy over “blind boxes” — small, collectible toys sold in packaging that keeps the exact figure inside a surprise until it is unsealed.

The toymaker, which is publicly traded on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange, has nearly 600 physical stores across 18 countries, according to its September 2025 half-year financial report.

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Much of its recent growth has concentrated in the U.S. In the first half of last year, the company opened 40 new stores, including 19 in the Americas. In Southern California, it now has stores in Westfield Century City, Glendale Galleria, and Westfield UTC Mall in La Jolla.

The office building Pop Mart is moving into, named “Slash,” features leaning glass windows and a distinguishable jagged design. The 1999 building was designed by the Los Angeles architect Eric Owen Moss.

Pop Mart’s decision to root itself in L.A.’s Westside comes amid Culver City’s transformation from a sleepy suburb known for being the home to Sony Pictures Studios — to an urban hub, driven, in part, by the Expo Line station that opened in 2012.

Ikea recently announced plans to open a 40,000-square-foot store in Culver City’s historic Helms Bakery complex — its first in L.A.’s Westside — later this spring.

Big tech has played an important role in Culver City’s recent evolution. Recent additions include Apple, which has opened a studio and has been building a larger office campus; Amazon, which in 2022 unveiled a massive virtual production stage, and Tiktok, which in 2020 opened a five-floor office featuring a content creation studio. Pinterest has a new office in Culver City as of last month, according to the company’s LinkedIn account.

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