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Big, big dreams in the wild, wild West
By Deborah Taylor-Hollis
Boo flew in last week and immediately met T.R. at Bills Restaurant. He was mapping out his strategy, looking at his options, and called me for local advice. He wanted to show me the blueprints for the new house--he's looking for a good investment.
"I made 1.2 mil on E-Bay selling Russian nuclear surplus--so now I need to turn it over fast so I have five mil by August 1. That's the IPO date on a pharmaceutical company I've been watching--they are experimenting with a new drug that melts fat away and has only one side effect--it apparently causes random sexual arousal in lab rats. What pounds the poor things didn't shed spontaneously sweated off with their cage-mates," he whispered to me while rolling out plans on the table.
"Are you nuts, Boo? You are currently living in a 25-foot Winnebago you won in a pinkslip race with your Yugo, you have no family, and you never stay in any one place long enough for the warrants to get updated--and why would you want to live here? We are Family Values USA, a place where we lobby for smaller, nicer houses--just what are you thinking?"
The plans showed a house in one corner--a quaint 980-foot, two-bed, one-bath on a little street. He had elaborate drawings for a four-story, eight-bedroom, nine-bath gothic, with formal living room, dining, breakfast space, servants over the garage, butler's pantry, back stairs and a circular drive.
He doesn't need this--this is a guy who hates to be awake if the sun is up, doesn't know how to use a doorbell (but his plans call for one that plays Bach's Fugue in D) and acquired that Yugo free with his first purchase of 10,000 rounds of Armenian ammunition. He is not what we call Glen material.
I tried to reason with him, tell him that he could make as much putting his money into G.E. stock for three months (which is a lie--our housing prices are the best place to boost capital), tried to explain how hard it is to be a homeowner (which he claimed would be no problem--he'd be selling in 90 days!) and tried to explain the serious problem with killing local houses. "You can't see the forest when you cut down the trees, Boo! Leave this nice little house alone!!"
"Hey, the neighbors will love it--I'm going with the same shade of pink the Shah of Iran used in Bel Air, lots of large Greco-Roman art out front, and the whole thing will be tastefully lit with 10,000-watt floodlights all night for security. I live alone so the neighbors won't be bothered with traffic, and I'm gone a lot--but the dogs will be there to keep the place homey--they only bark if anyone comes within 2,000 feet. I've had the motion detectors modified so they won't blast when leaves fall--only when something moves in front of them or the ground shakes.
"Now, look over here Deb--I got a great deal on a dozen phones--one that's personal, one for business, one cell, one beeper line, one fax line, four computer lines and three guest phones--two indoors and one out by the pool. It's got a sub-zero refrigerator for my imported beers, a hot tub/spa for those low-20s winter nights, a three-car garage for the Yugo, the Winnebago and the SUV, and even though I won't have any trees left when we scrape, I planned a nice Zen garden with lots of sand that the gardening staff can keep clean with only minimal blowing."
I wanted to throttle him by then. Another guy with way too much money and no sense of pride in neighborhoods, architectural integrity, community standards or even any concerns about his neighbors was about to screw up another cute old neighborhood--only this time it was mine!
"Why not up in San Francisco--or even Woodside? They have much bigger lots, and they cater to folks like you, Boo--people with specific visions, if you get my drift."
"They have zoning rules, building codes, acceptability guidelines, babe! I couldn't find anything small enough and get approval to build something big enough to make the money thing work. Here it's the Wild West--your city government is so weak that Donald Trump is throwing up a casino on Iris court--he found a family that has Indian blood, and is claiming their house is a sovereign nation.
"There's slots in the driveway by Friday!" he called out to me as he swooped up the plans, grabbed T.R., his Realtor, and called shotgun as she pulled out of the lot. The last thing I heard him say was "I need escrow by sundown!" as they peeled out the driveway. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the place he's looking to buy isn't for sale--it's mine.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
