By GUEST COMMENTARY BY SETH BARNES
Across our nation a frenzied debate rages over the steady escalation of real estate prices. Will home values continue to rise? Is it too late to jump into the white-hot marketplace? Should I risk life, limb and pocketbook to squeeze every penny within reach into the first dilapidated shanty I can lay my hands on?
These questions resonate more loudly in the minds of renters like me. After all, there is no greater disgrace than missing an opportunity to leverage unbalanced market conditions into an insane amount of cash. At least that’s what I’ve learned from watching TV.
This is where I stood at the beginning of last week. I couldn’t pony up the cash for a piece of property on my own. I didn’t want to bother with all the intricacies and obligations of owning a home. I wasn’t exactly sure what property taxes consisted of, but I sure as hell didn’t want to pay them.
I wanted in on the real estate boom without any of the annoying inconveniences.
So, like most lazy and unmotivated knuckleheads looking for an easy way out, I stumbled upon that shining beacon of redemption: A government handout.
While I’ve only lived here for a few months, it’s clear that the city is as socially conscious and progressive as they come. Santa Monica clearly relishes extending assistance to the marginalized and dispossessed. If you’re a disease-ravaged squirrel, a chronically homeless opiate abuser, or a daredevil bicyclist insistent on riding down traffic-choked thoroughfares, an activist group of some sort supports and genuinely believes in your cause.
I knew Santa Monica took care of its tenant population with its controversial rent control measures. And while I would have happily moved myself into an artificially deflated lease agreement, I found something better. To my extreme delight, Santa Monica also runs a “short-term” property acquisition program that I unwittingly became a part of on a recent Monday morning.
Heading out to my car to run an errand, I realized I had failed to move my car for street sweeping. A ticket was unceremoniously jammed under my windshield. I removed the ticket and glanced at the fine. I was stupefied at the amount: $47. Now, it’s possible that I’m a sheltered and naïve ignoramus, but I just couldn’t see how a seemingly minor infraction could add up to nearly $50. Of course, the city needs to encourage residents to move their vehicles by setting a sufficiently punitive penalty, but would-n’t something on the order of $20 do the trick? Did the small blip that my car forced the street sweeper to undertake really result in $50 of hardship for the city? Most importantly: Was the sweeper really even doing anything other than churning the refuse and grime into the middle of the street?
It was perplexing. It was out of character for a leftist, quixotic outpost like Santa Monica to raise the ceiling on fines to pay for a wide buffet of social programs and services. It seemed they were trying to weasel their way deep into the recesses of my pocketbook with a dinky street sweeping machine. It felt like a shakedown.
But as I opened the door and put the key in the ignition, a feeling of calm washed over me. My bitterness dissipated. I felt true peace and love for my fellow man. I smiled slightly and smelled something wholesome and familiar. Fresh baked bread, perhaps.
I was home. Secure in my own personal space. Utterly serene. It was as clear as a freshly swept patch of asphalt: I had just purchased an eight by five foot parcel of land from the city of Santa Monica for the low, low price of $47. Granted, I only owned it from 10 a.m. to noon that morning. Granted, I had no official deed or title to the space, but the ticket clearly indicated that a green RAV 4 utility vehicle was occupying space on Sixth Street at 10:31 a.m. That sounded pretty ironclad to me.
So on the occasional Monday or Tuesday morning, you’ll find me ensconced in my new digs. Sometimes I read the newspaper or take in a radio program. I usually have a steaming cup of coffee. Some day, I may set up a grill, fill a cooler with refreshments, and flip open the tailgate. You know, the whole shebang.
This is a happy story. Almost zero commitments are demanded of me. I can keep my responsibility dial tuned to “moderate.” Santa Monica has a snappy way to pay for the social bloat that oozes from its balance sheet, and I have a method for trying out homeownership on a de facto basis.
That’s what I call synergy. (Seth Barnes is a writer living in Santa Monica. He)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on October 20, 2005. Read the original PDF.