Remember to Take Your Crazy Pills

27 07 2010

Buckle up folks. Check the chin straps on your helmets too.  This is real estate. If you don’t keep taking your crazy pills you aren’t going to be able to keep up.

Real estate is all over the map these days – literally and figuratively. Terra firma here. And terra-a-lot-less-firma  there.  Or, as Groucho Marx said:  “You can get wood. You can get brick. You can get stucco. Boy, can you get stucco.”

Talk to an Agent who just closed a couple of escrows and the world is perfect. The market is back. Everything is coming up roses. Talk to another Agent short sale-ing his own upside-down beach house and the whole dream has suddenly been dragged under by the inexorable undertow of a rude awakening.  Just because we hype it, that doesn’t make it so.   We can kick the can down the road but we’re all still going to have to kick the bucket in one of the great reckonings that lies ahead. Maybe switching over to the Mayan Calendar isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Read about those local folks who thought they were getting an “amazing foreclosure deal” like the one’s late night infomercials have weaned us on and it  lends another perspective.  Amazing indeed. They ended up buying a worthless Wachovia 2nd  on the courthouse steps, putting in another $25,000 worth of worthless improvements, only to find out that parent company, Wells Fargo, was still holding the first.

Methinks the right hand knew exactly what the left hand was doing in this case.  The slight of the hands worked because they weren’t required by law to disclose the rules of the game to unwitting people.  Buyers beware and buyers be aware. A little due diligence is always worth your while.

But then, the great fix is in anyway, right?  The Financial Reform Bill was just signed into law as I write this, a mere 8 minutes ago. Once again, we’ve come to another intersection on the road to recovery or the other one leading to eternal damnation.  That mythical place on the flawed GPS System where Wall Street, Pennsylvania Avenue and Main Street are all supposed to meet in magical confluence.

Forgive me, if I’m not overly-optimistic. We’re already suffering the “new and unimproved” of HAMP, HAFA, HVCC,  HERA-MDIA and a whole hullabaloo of other H-ish acronyms. Lots of sound and fury signifying nothing but hassle. Business as usual made even harder than usual.  Sort of like rooting out the cancer by killing the patient.

Not that we should trust Alan Greenspan anymore – the man who knew too much who became the man who fell to earth by being the man who was the last to see it all coming, even when impending disaster was trick-or-treating through every neighborhood in America,  but… the former sage of finance cryptically says this about the new reform legislation: “There are unintended consequences in every page” of this 2,000 page bill.

And speaking of unintended consequences…how about our own little piece of pending local legislation relating to the regulation of rentals.  What happens if some unhinged landlord gets angry enough to set off a neutron bomb?  It would be easy to drive around town, log the addresses of hundreds of funky, illegal garage conversions and report them for code violations.

Forty years of growth by default rather than appropriate planning  – all coming home to roost in the over-crowded nests of small property owners who need that extra income to make their mortgage payments.  C’mon! Every Mayor and ex-Mayor living on the lower Westside has seen the extra units with the built-up bathroom floors to allow plumbing pipes to get to the sewer mains, electric feeds hanging precariously ten feet above ground waiting for unsuspecting kids to hit ‘em with sticks and gnarly carpet-seconds thrown over bare concrete slabs in the middle of an incredibly high water table?

But take heart.  Santa Cruz was just named one of the 25 best cities for the rich and the single by Money Magazine.  Apparently,  we are the place where “surf culture meets tech geek.”  We’re going on a scavenger hunt next Friday night, to look for some of those rich and single people hiding in our midst.  The winner will receive a free  Keep Santa Cruz Weirdly Rich and Single bumper sticker.

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Bridging Bardo

13 11 2009

bardo-pond-set-and-settingWhen the going gets weird and the path suddenly isn’t lined with bright lights and beacons to illuminate the future anymore, what choice do we have, but to reach into our secret stash and try to coax a little clarity out of all that sage advice we’ve been hoarding?

My opening gambit on this week’s chessboard, is to invoke the simple Wisdom of the Bard.  “All the World’s a Stage. And the men and women are merely players.”

It sets the tone for this moment in history. An experiential “aha” moment that brings a fuller appreciation for the proverbial old Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.”

And I’m  adding a little Wisdom of the Bardo to the mix as well.  Bardo refers to the Tibetan realm of the afterlife. The transitional state that lies between two different incarnations.  Not surprisingly the Wisdom of the Bardo  is exactly the same as that of the Bard:  “All the World’s a Stage.”    This place, this market, this time are all just a stage we are moving through.  Or as  George Malley put it after his flash of inspiration in the movie Phenomenon:  “Everything is on its way to somewhere.”

So we continue our lay-over between real estate lifetimes. Our intermezzo. The interesting interlude after the end of the third act.  Hopefully,  we’ll use the opportunity to assess the karmic debt we’ve accrued and make good choices about how we are going to pay it down when real estate finally gets to wherever it is going.

But in the meantime, in the slow here and now of  Bardo, I admit, I’ve been a sorry soul – much too sad and much too troubled. Even though I know in my heart of hearts that this too shall pass.  I finally figured out why I’ve been in such a deep funk lately. It is simple:  I miss the people.  I miss the players.

I miss the Appraisers who are dropping out of the business. The one’s who remember what properties sold for 10, 20, 30 years ago. The one’s who know the difference between 3 blocks to the beach and 6 blocks to the beach. The one’s who intrinsically understand why Meder Street and Cherryvale Avenue have always been greatly appreciated. The one’s who are at home in this marketplace – rather than in San Jose or Hollister.

I miss all the Title People downsized into the efficiency compartments on corporate cube farms.  Parceled out of  Santa Cruz.  Nominally, still there, but tucked under that invisible cloaking device called a voice mail system.  Available by e mail but who might just as well be sending us google earth maps from Mumbai. Software upgrades just can’t explain a set of complicated easements to a real buyer with real questions about real, real estate.

I miss the helping hands of the cadre of caring local escrow officers.  I hate to see them being co-opted on a regular basis by their distant Southern California cousins who have no business doing business here  simply because they have offices close to so many of the troubled financial institutions peddling their toxic assets in Santa Cruz.  Yes, in theory, escrow officers should all be perfectly interchangeable. One size should fit all situations. But escrow-speak in SoCal is a different business dialect than we speak here in NorCal and no one can convince me that clients are getting the same quality of service and a “neutral” fair shake from escrow personnel who don’t have any real stake in our community.

I miss a market that used to revolve around organic sellers – the euphemism that’s now used to describe real people going through real transitions with real-life concerns motivating them and informing their decisions. I miss a market that should by all rights be rife with opportunities for excited first time and move-up, organic buyers.  Instead they are getting bludgeoned into submission by the mind-numbing machinations and jackass pranks of institutions that control both the selling side and lending side of so many would-be, could-be, should-be transactions.

I miss my local Realtor colleagues who in so many cases have given way to a strange and motley cast of nameless characters who don’t seem to be able to return a phone call or muster up a hint of concern about others.  Temporal apparitions who have ridden into town on the coattails of  REO clunkers and who will soon disappear back into the outlying woodwork whenever the foreclosure inventory finally sunsets.

Yes, I miss the people.   All those warm dedicated souls biding their time in limbo right now, waiting in Bardo for rebirth.  witnessing  the last gasps of a dying market paradigm  being run into the ground by the ghosts  in the machine.

 

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