by Paul Slaybaugh | May 17, 2010 | Home Buying, Scottsdale Real Estate
There are things that you, as a home buyer, want to know about a prospective new neighborhood. Are the schools top shelf? Is there shopping nearby? Do the neighbors hold a semi-annual Scott Baio look-alike contest? For the most part, your agent can help you find the answers to your questions (though determining a victor in that last one seems dubious given it has been a couple of decades since Charles was last seen in charge). There are some matters which may be pertinent to your purchasing decision that I cannot field, however.
Fair housing doctrine is the result of a noble pursuit to ensure that all consumers enjoy shared basic rights and equal housing opportunity. The so-called protected classes against which housing discrimination is strictly prohibited include race, color, religion, gender, national origin, persons with disabilities and familial status (having children under 18 years of age).
(Note omissions such as job description and political affiliation from that grouping. Don’t like Realtors? Democrats? You don’t have to sell your house to one. Of course, green is the only color that should matter to a home seller, and rejecting any potential suitor for a reason other than unacceptable contract terms is not only foolish, but an invitation for trouble. Protected class or not, this is America. You can sue or be sued for virtually anything.)
Now that we have established who cannot be barred from housing opportunities for no other reason than certain personal attributes, let’s take it a step further. A frequent criticism of Realtors is that we won’t answer your direct questions when you are trying to get the skinny on an area. Your pointed questions are met with milquetoast answers such as, “There are all types of people in this community,” or “You should go to the police department website to research that on your own.”
It’s not because we don’t want to be helpful. We do. Believe me. Many times, we are constrained by overbearing legalities that make it difficult to effectively advise our clients. While laudable, fair housing doctrine in practice can be maddeningly frustrating, too. I cannot tell you how many Christian families live in the neighborhood. I can’t tell you if a subdivision is kid friendly. I can’t tell you if an area you have inquired about is a “bad part of town” or not. I can’t give you the wink and a nudge as I drone on about not being permitted to discuss such matters.
When you, as an unknowing consumer, stray into the no-fly zone, the exchanges often go something like this.
Q: “Are there a lot of minorities in this area?”
A: “There are people of all kinds in this neighborhood. I am not at liberty to discuss such things. Please get out of my car you intolerant ape.”
Q: “Are there more families or singles that live in this neighborhood?”
A: “There are people of all kinds in this neighborhood. I am not at liberty to discuss such things. If you are trolling for a date, I suggest the local pub … maybe Facebook.”
Q: “Is there a lot of crime here?”
A: “That depends on whether you consider vice a victimless crime … er, I mean, you would need to check the local PD’s website to review those statistics.”
Q: “Are there any agnostic Madagascan women who walk with a limp and have six adopted Inuit kids nearby?”
A: “Security!”
The thing to remember is that we agents deal in properties, not people. Ask me about the community amenities, the builders, the values. Shoot, you can ask me for the square root of the Pythagorean Theorem for that matter (the answer is “F,” by the way). Just don’t ask me to lay out the area demographics for you. There are resources available to you should you wish to perform your own investigations, but as a licensed agent, I cannot steer you to or from a particular area based on criteria that either closely treads or firmly stomps on a protected class.
Of course, it would be naive to assert that no agent has ever flaunted these guidelines to provide a client with the information sought. Were it me in the consumer’s shoes, I’d worry where else said agent would be willing to bend the ethical spoon, but I digress.
Are there times when I feel constrained from fully doing my job and properly advising my clients about both the positives and negatives in a community? Absolutely. As a safeguard that prevents agents from feeding into arcane prejudices and stereotypes, however, it is necessary to ensure that we don’t artificially impact values or deny opportunities. You can, and should, do all pertinent investigations regarding the property you aim to call home for the next who knows how many years. You are not restricted from obtaining the information you seek. Just know that your helpful agent will not be able to abet certain fact-finding missions.
You can ask me if the house is far enough away from the meth lab down the street to withstand the inevitable explosion (it’s not). Just don’t ask me to speculate whether the aspiring chemist within is here legally or not.
by Paul Slaybaugh | May 13, 2010 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
A well-heeled businessman strode into the foyer of a nondescript office building. Tossing a nod over his shoulder at the exiting secretary who held the door for him, he failed to suppress the knowing grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. A quick appraisal of the surroundings threatened to dampen his buoyant mood, however. The threadbare plaid couch in the waiting area appeared to be a reluctant holdover from his grandparent’s den, circa 1981. Were it not for the well-thumbed magazines littered about the adjoining table, he would not have believed that clients were actually expected to plant their backsides into the hungry springs that surely laid in wait just beneath the sweat-stained fabric. The secretarial desk, vacant now that the evening receptionist had departed, seemed smallish somehow. The faux wood laminate counter tops didn’t mesh with his recollection of level four granite, either. The walls needed a coat of paint. The soothing antique white had faded to a sickly yellow.
How does someone run a business like this, he wondered.
A low, reverential whistle interrupted his silent consternation.
“Well, look at you,” the familiar voice gushed. “I’m still paying for those shoes, you know.”
He felt a twinge of remorse as he looked down at the Italian leather loafers. Whoever heard of tapping a line of credit for footwear? The moment quickly passed. The projection of success was a cornerstone principle to the manifestation of such.
“What price can you put on comfort,” he retorted.
“Sixteen hundred dollars and twenty eight cents.”
“Bah, it’s like walking on clouds. Besides, how can you possibly remember the exact amount?”
“Come on back,” his counterpart responded by way of an invitation.
Settling into the chair opposite the desk in his host’s office, he considered the barren wall to his right.
“Where are the awards?”
“Packed them away last year.”
“Why? I worked my butt off for those.”
“The game has changed, Junior. In case you haven’t looked around lately, people are hurting. Shoot, we’ve done our own share of hurting. Nobody cares about your sales records.”
For the first time, he really studied the face in front of him. The florescent lighting of the private office revealed deep creases that had remained hidden in the shadows of the dank reception area. The urgency in the red-rimmed, greenish-brown eyes was as palpable as the fatigue. There was an unmistakably hard edge to the countenance that seemed at odds with its hound dog expression. He was looking into a face that had seen too much combat.
“You didn’t invite me here to talk about my shoes.”
“You’ve always had a good head underneath that fifty dollar haircut. It’s time you started using it,” came the cryptic reply.
Sensing it was not his turn to speak, he let the silence expand before his counterpart continued.
“For starters, the cars, the vacations, the nights out … you’ve gotta knock all of that stuff off. It’s time you started hanging on to the dough that earned you all of those plaques,” he said, motioning to the empty wall.
“But-”
“No buts. Look around, Chief. This is what’s waiting for you if you don’t get it together.”
He clamped his mouth shut, deciding to let the enigma in faded blue jeans say his piece. The sooner he got out of here, the sooner he’d make it to the range. He didn’t have the slightest idea where the slice in his fairway driver had come from, but he needed to get it ironed out before the charity tournament on Saturday. Children’s Leukemia this time? Diabetes Awareness? He couldn’t remember.
“Moving on,” his appointed conscience interjected. “The real reason I asked you here today is to clear the air about the message you are promoting. Torpedo the kids’ college fund if you like, we’re resilient, but your clients deserve better from you.”
Kids, he thought as he folded his arms and sat back in the chair, bracing for the sanctimonious diatribe that was sure to follow. As in plural?
“Bear with me one second.”
His host pulled a worn, blue notebook out of one of the desk drawers.
“Hey, I’ve been looking for that,” he objected.
“Confiscated for your own good. Our own good. Let’s take a look at what you have been telling consumers, shall we?”
A brief pause accompanied the turning of pages.
“July 7th, 2004. You told Mr. Davis that if he didn’t buy now, he might soon be priced out of the market.”
“I was right! By December, prices in the neighborhood he was looking in had risen an additional ten percent –”
“And now it’s down forty percent. I know you thought you were looking out for his interests, but you only considered the short term prognosis.”
“That’s not possible! Property values never decline in Scottsdale! We’ve been historically undervalued, especially compared to California. We’ve remained stable when other markets have tanked!”
“February 2, 2005. You told Mr. & Mrs. Flemming that the forthcoming bubble was a media myth.”
“Maybe not a myth, but it’s definitely a media creation! If the talking heads wouldn’t go on the news scaring the beejeezus out of buyers every night-”
“Right, Katie Couric created no-qual financing and the subsequent investor-driven spike of artificial demand that led to a massive housing glut and a skittish buyer pool. God help us if Anderson Cooper ever goes on air to tell us about the Easter Bunny.”
“You’re telling me they’re right?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” his colleague responded with chagrin.
“Yeah, yeah, well hindsight being twenty twenty …”
“March 8, 2006. You opined to Mrs. Sanjeve that the market still had some legs.”
“Things have slowed down, sure, but prices are still inching up,” he responded meekly.
“You had to know things were getting ready to go sideways. Prices may have held steady before the coming plummet, but days on market were starting to pile up. Homes that received five offers before the sign even got planted in the front yard were now taking thirty to sixty days to sell. The writing was on the wall, you just couldn’t interpret the black and white truth through those rose-colored glasses of yours. Heck, you nearly got caught holding an investment property yourself.”
“I believe in our market. Scottsdale has always been the apex destination in Arizona. Our values don’t decline. Ever.”
“There’s that pre-bubble thinking again. Watch that reliance on past performance, Champ. Any market that relies on human buyers and sellers is subject to downs as well as up. No more fortune telling, you understand me? From now on, save the tea leaves for the missus’s iced chai lattes.”
“She doesn’t drink chai,” he answered.
“She will.”
“Okay.”
“August 18, 2007. Right before their portfolio took an irreparable beating with the jumbo loan market disintegration, you advised the Echols that they act now before interest rates rise.”
“Wait a minute, 2007? That one’s not on me!”
“Oh, you’re right. My apologies. Forgot which market I plucked you out of. Do me a favor and send in 2007-2008 on your way out, would you? He should be here by now. Looks a lot like you, just a little stressed out.”
He chuckled.
There was a knock at the door.
“That must be us now.”
Instead of the expected visitor, however, a young woman poked her head into the room.
“Okay, your hour’s up. I’m sorry, but I really need the room back now,” she said.
He looked at his younger self and gave an embarrassed shrug of his shoulders before nodding in the direction of the new arrival.
“Tracey here just got her license in the fall.”
A rueful shake of the head accompanied another pause. He glanced down at the neatly packed duffel of personal affects at his feet, wondering for the umpteenth time if the makeshift home office would hold it all. He raised his head and found the eyes of his disbelieving doppelganger.
“Last piece of advice. Spare yourself the martyr act and list some freaking REOs.”
________________________________________________
*PLEASE NOTE NO CAREERS WERE HARMED DURING THE WRITING OF THIS FICTION*
Just stretching my creative legs a bit, people 😉
by Paul Slaybaugh | May 12, 2010 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
Ninety two contentious minutes into a 90 minute contest, the pitch is littered with casualties. Spent forwards, midfielders and fullbacks slogging wearily through stoppage time. Lungs seared from fruitless forays into the opposing half of the field, calves and hamstrings cramping from dehydration, members of both squads looking to the official for mercy.
Stop the game already, their eyes plead. In their weakened states, they are satisfied with a draw. Nil-nil. No glory, but no shame either. Just end this madness and take away the pain.
Not me. I play this game to win. Always. Fighting through elbows and spikes-up challenges all afternoon, I await my chance. That one bounce of the ball that will loose me. A coiled spring, all I need is one step and I’m gone. The jamoke trying to defend me does not have a prayer. Just let the ball squirt free along this right sideline. Just once.
And then it happens.
A poor touch by the center midfielder and the shining sphere of possibility bounces my way. Twenty yards in front of me with no defender in sight, the ball urges speed into my heavy legs. My shadow senses the moment, too. It’s a footrace.
Not feeling the handful of jersey being tugged from behind, ignoring the attempts to ensnare my feet, I rocket past my rival. He might as well be dipped in lead and cast in stone. Are my feet even touching the ground?
By the time I reach my quarry, I’ve built a full head of steam. The sweeper is running headlong towards me, but his is a fool’s errand. Lothar Matteus himself stands no chance at this very moment. A quick juke to the left followed by a step-over to the right, and his legs are agape. A deft touch of the ball through his wickets and I blow past his shoulder to recollect what is mine.
I see the referee out of the corner of my eye, surprised into action. He’s glancing at his watch, but he knows there will be resolution before putting lips to whistle. The linesman is galloping up his sideline in vain attempt to follow the action. Forget it, old boy. You will be a distant spectator to this penultimate play.
It’s just me and the keeper.
Having utterly stonewalled my mates thus far, my foe is formidable. Six foot four and full of muscles.
I choose my angle of attack and approach at 3/4 speed. All the while, competing voices in my head are shouting instructions:
“Deke it past him low and hard! ”
“Wait for him to go into his slide, then lift the ball over him!”
“Blow right past him and dribble the ball into the net!”
“Blast it into the upper 90!”
I ignore them all. I have been here before, and my body knows what to do. Years of practice guide me through the next three seconds. The crowd disappears. The field becomes the neighborhood park where I spent the weekends of my youth. I see the orange cones staggered over the next ten yards and navigate them flawlessly. Drawing my right leg back powerfully, I don’t even look at the hard-charging goalie.
BOOM.
All of my remaining energy and force are transferred into the ball. I know I’ve caught it well because I don’t feel a thing as I strike through it. Utterly drained and yielding to momentum, I fall forward with the shot. I hear the shrill hiss as the ball charts a path to destiny. Lifting my face from the ground to track its flight, I see it just nick the goalkeper’s outstretched fingertip. Enough to alter its path? Hard to say.
And so I watch. And I wait.
by Paul Slaybaugh | May 8, 2010 | Scottsdale Real Estate
I have been told that personal branding is a vital part of a successful Realtor’s marketing toolbox. Ad nauseum. To an extent, I agree. As any production-based entrepreneur will attest, competence is only part of the equation. If the general public does not know you exist, you will starve. It’s as simple as that. That said, there is a fine line between marketing your wares and losing yourself within a caricature. Personally speaking, I’d much prefer to be the guy whose name is passed amongst friends, family and co-workers than the floating head on the side of a bus. Appealing to the lowest common denominator strikes me as misadventurous in terms of cost (somebody, namely future clients, will have to take the expense of the ME ME ME based advertising on the chin) and reputation.
My choice? I choose anti-branding as my brand. In disavowing the frivolous and the cheesy, I opt for a quality over quantity approach to client acquisition and retention. In short, I hope for my service to speak in place of the glamor headshot on a bus stop bench.
Some chase the ambulance. Some let the ambulance chase them.
As such, I have assembled a loose collection of industry pet peeves which may help you determine whether or not my substance over style approach to the industry will mesh with both your disposition and expectations for your choice in representation.
I do not wear a nametag. This should be reserved for Walmart employees, mechanics and the truly forgetful.
I do not carry a clipboard. If you believe you require a prop to look more professional, odds are high you are right.
I do not wear a suit and tie. Nothing wrong with dressing for success, but a guy in a tie wants to sell you something. I want clients and customers to feel comfortable around me.
I do not have pictures of my pets on my business cards. “When the time comes to sell your most valuable asset, you can trust Paul Slaybaugh … and his kitty cats!”
I do not press said business card into the hand of every neighbor on my block. Probably a bad business decision on my part, but I never liked the idea of my neighbors ducking inside their homes to avoid “that guy” when they see me walking down the street.
I do not inform buyers, “This is the kitchen!” when showing a house. You’ve seen this agent on House Hunters. She doesn’t trust your ability to bridge the convection oven + refrigerator = kitchen divide.
I do not sell insurance or loans. Or pomegranate juice. Or encyclopedias. I sell houses. That’s it. If I’m good enough at it, there is no need to branch out into repping energy elixers on the side.
I do not work a good ‘ole boys referral network. I refer my clients to the best service providers I know with expectation of neither reciprocation, nor compensation. Too many great guys, but bad practitioners out there to gamble my client’s best interests with a “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” relationship. If I provide an affiliate’s name, it’s a name worth knowing.
I do not turn off my cell phone. I’m not always available to field a call, but the phone stays on. Some emergencies can’t wait for normal business hours.
I do not introduce myself at parties as “Paul Slaybaugh, Realtor.” Rest assured, you can let your guard down when we are off the clock without fear of a never-ending solicitation. I am a whole person. Real Estate is what I do, but not the entirety of who I am.
I do not sell houses. I help houses sell themselves. I can sell you a pen if you already have four, but I cannot sell you a house that you don’t want. Many agents put on a show for their clients in an effort to demonstrate just how salesy they can be when promoting their home. It’s a mistake.
I do not treat lenders, title officers, stagers or contractors as if they work for me. We’re all a team, with the client as captain. It is my goal to create an atmosphere in which all professionals involved will be eager to work with me again upon the successful conclusion of a transaction. It doesn’t serve my clients’ purposes to have the network of providers I rely upon cringe when my number flashes across their caller ID.
I do not put balloons on my open house signs. I don’t juggle or have pie-eating contests either. We are selling a HOUSE here people, not a set of Goodyears.
I do not drop client names around the office. Or around other clients, for that matter, in an attempt to convince them of my importance. Aside from valuing your privacy in this modern TMZ world, who really cares? “Famous by association” is entirely overrated. I’d rather attain my promised 15 minutes through merit.
I do not attend tour groups for the scones and gossip alone. I’m there to work. The scones are great, though.
I do not advertise sales, incentives or gimmicks for the use of my services. I offer competitive fees, but I will not trick you into working with me. If you select your professional representative based on the allure of a complimentary fruit basket or shoulder massage, God speed.
And I do not have a magnet on my car.
If you think we would make a good professional match, drop me a line. It would be my privilege to represent you in the purchase or sale of your Scottsdale home.
*ACT NOW!*
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by Paul Slaybaugh | May 2, 2010 | This & That
Ever throw rocks at the ice cream man when you were a kid?
I did.
I have absolutely no idea why either. Were we bored? Most likely. Did we suspect him of secretly poisoning the chocolate milkshakes? Absolutely. Of course, we also had it on good authority that the house at the end of the street was haunted, and that the Fairfields were running some form of illicit enterprise or another from their darkened living room. The exact nature of what transpired behind those drawn curtains was a source of great debate, but the more outrageous the speculation, the more weight it held. Bullies like Mike Fairfield, with their predatory eyes and facial spasms, didn’t just create themselves. Our block was rife with the ready intrigue and danger demanded by the collective imagination of ten year old boys.
So it was one day that we decided it would be a good idea to hide behind the wall of the Carlson’s house and heave handfuls of gravel at the little white truck that played the Siren song of a modern day pied piper as it slowly made its way down North 80th Place. What made this the day for the insurrection that had been welling ever since our parents started fretting about the dangers of tampered Halloween candy (and effectively spawning yet another ghost for us to chase)? I honestly can’t say, other than we thought it would be funny.
And it was funny. RAT-A-TAT-TAT!!!
The sounds of impact. Music to a young boy’s ears.
We laughed about it for 3 days straight. Then we laughed about it some more. Oh, if we could only have seen the ice cream man’s face when that granite avalanche came crashing down on his truck!
Eventually, we stopped laughing. The ice cream man didn’t come back the next week. Or the week after that. In fact,the ice cream man never came back. Flash forward a quarter of a century. My parents still live in that house on North 80th Place. As McCormick Ranch has always been a haven for families, there is no shortage of kids in the neighborhood. A new generation of receptive customers. And still … no ice cream man.
I can’t help but wonder if my friends and I didn’t mess things up years ago for these kids today. Is it possible that the ice cream man is simply fading into the sepia tones of yesteryear through no fault of our own? Sure. But is it also possible that the ice cream man is visiting other neighborhoods at this very instant – auspiciously avoiding the forever blacklisted site of the fated ambush? Yes.
The temptation to yield to instant gratification is very real for us all. Our actions far outlast the immediate consequences, however. Those who would operate in the margins of ethical behavior to expedite the task at hand fail to account for the lasting repercussions that such short-sided tactics promise. Ever slander a competitor? Exploit confidential or inappropriately obtained information for leverage? How about trying to separate a colleague from a few dollars worth of commission or an established client? It’s self-defeating. Regardless of the immediate outcome, debasing oneself in such a manner is guaranteed to set off a chain of events that may not be fully realized for years to come. Reputations and livelihoods are at stake, and not just our own. Often, our actions prove detrimental to those we will never even meet.
So when you reach one of those forks in the road, take a moment to think, lest you forfeit your spoon.
And don’t throw rocks at the ice cream man.
