by Paul Slaybaugh | Sep 3, 2010 | Scottsdale Real Estate
Is it time for an MLS database of active buyers?
I ponder this on the heels of difficulties in locating quality resale homes amidst the bank owned rubble of today’s market.
We have long been beholden to the seller in the Real Estate hierarchy as a home listing sets all subsequent wheels in motion. Cooperating agents are alerted to the new offering. Those agents, in turn, seek matches for the property against their current active buyer rolodex.
Is it time we turned that seller oriented paradigm on its ear?
I’m wondering if I’m alone in my thinking when I posit that it would be beneficial to reach agents via the broad scale of the MLS with our buyer needs. We tout such needs at office meetings and tour groups, so why not disseminate them across a collective platform? No need to be strictly beholden to the current crop of listings when we could create a database for all agents to peruse based on buyer specific criteria (location, price, size, etc preferences). In addition to helping match up buyers with forthcoming properties that have yet to hit the market, I imagine such a beast could help potential sellers gauge the level of demand for their properties prior to “testing the market.” What a tremendous listing tool as well. Imagine looking through the day’s hotsheet for new buyer needs to find a potential match for a would-be seller who has been on the fence about putting his home on the market.
“Mr. Seller, there are now 7 listed buyers for a home that fits your exact parameters. That is up from 3 last month. It’s time to throw this thing on the market.”
In this regard, such a dual database of homes for sale and active buyers could serve the interests of both parties. A seller could opt to keep the general public at bay and make his home available only to those buyers his listing agent targets as candidates (no sign in the yard, no nosey neighbors, no showings with little to no notice), and a buyer could tap into the burgeoning inventory of almost sellers.
If we are to consider the Multiple Listing Service as Match.com for Real Estate buyers and sellers, why does half of that equation gets the benefit of perusing the pictures and profiles of prospective mates while keeping their own buckteeth hidden behind a pixelated avatar?
Precautions would have to be taken for privacy concerns, of course, but such obstacles are not insurmountable. Only buyers signed to Exclusive Buyer Brokerage Agreements would constitute suitable “listing” candidates.
What say you forward thinkers of the Real Estate industry and interested members of the consuming public, care to join me for some impromptu brainstorming? Is it time for dual databases for buyers and sellers?
Or have I been eating too many paint chips again?
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jul 6, 2010 | Home Selling, Scottsdale Real Estate
2010 is the Year of the Niche.
It’s true, feel free to consult the Chinese calendar to verify. Scottsdale Real Estate practitioners, in self-defense, have turned to new and interesting means of keeping their businesses relevant in these inexplicable times. Today’s homework assignment for a Real Estate adventurer? Finding a profitable, niche specialty. Thus, the members of the rank and file have been advised to choose a tunnel and follow it out of the malaise. Two examples stand above the rest as the most popular paths to career CPR: bank-owned property sales and short sales.
Forever a fringe subset of the industry, the foreclosure market has become a predominant segment. Virtually unheard of outside a counter-culture circle of practitioners a few short years ago, short sale specialization is another a bully of the current Real Estate pulpit. Given the adapt or perish mantra that permeates a commission based existence, it is hard to fault an agent for migrating to either avenue in an effort to remain profitable. It’s Survival 101.
I won’t pretend that I have not considered both routes as viable solutions to the systemic problems facing the current Real Estate market here in Scottsdale. The smart money goes where the action is. And yet, I have no particular affinity for the institutions that contributed to the implosion of my clients’ property values. I have no burning desire to represent said institutions in transactions against the little guy whom they have summarily defrocked. I’ll put my buyer in the car and go try to steal a property from the bank, but there aren’t enough deflated greenbacks in the US Treasury to convince me to sign on as the Devil’s listing advocate.
Short sale sellers deserve professional assistance. Sadly, I fail to believe that an agent who would flee to “specialization” in this sector at this late stage would prove a legitimate source of the expertise that so many need (and so few actually have). A weekend course and some moxie do not an expert make. Perhaps the specialists that are being churned out at an alarming rate will boast the training and experience necessary to be of legitimate value during the next down cycle, but such “expert in training” zygotes are not the answer for those who need assistance NOW. The stakes are too high to navigate the short sale obstacle course on a bike whose training wheels were only recently, and prematurely, removed. A substantial incubation period is necessary before such a “specialist” fully morphs from a liability to an asset.
Beware the marketing Sirens who would lead a negative equity seller onto the rocks with good intentions.
So where does that leave a conscientious objector to the hordes of freshly minted “experts” with 6 months of experience in a chosen area of specialization? Right back where I started: 100% loyal to real, live humans.
There is nothing wrong with diversifying one’s business practice to gird against shifts in the market, but I refuse to abandon a loyal client base for the new money of bank business. Once you become beholden to the financial institutions, there is little time left in the day to service those who now constitute an under-represented segment of the Real Estate market. Sure, the bank guy might take on a few moms and pops here and there, but can an overextended agent really provide a private seller the level of service required to do this job? A dubious proposition in the best of times, let alone in the murkiness of 2010. With a market that is still twenty thousand leagues beneath the sea, your agent’s periscope better be nimble and at the ready if you are to avoid the same shipwrecked fate that has befallen so many neighbors. Unthinkable in an industry with more per capita agents than snakes on a plane, but I surmise that all of this nichefying has relegated the non-distressed homeowner to afterthought status.
Assuming you have no equity in your home, or will be unwilling to part with it at the market’s nadir if you do, the industry has given up on you as a viable source of business. It has moved on. And yet, there are a few straggling agents who aren’t quite ready to throw in that towel.
While it may seem that every agent and his recently licensed brother have gone to work for the banks, know that there are still a few of us diehards around who pledge allegiance to you. Our phones aren’t always jammed with 8 bazillion calls about our 8 bazillion listings. We won’t take a week to respond to your questions and concerns. We have staked our careers to providing a certain level of service, and we will not compromise it. Market conditions be damned.
Tempting though it may be to wear the “Certified Gastrointestinal Distress Expert” or “Short Sided Career Reinvention Specialist” hats, we stay away from the light and cement our enduring commitments to those left behind in the industry’s pursuit of the next big thing.
Our niche is you.
Should you require the hands on, fully attentive assistance of a couple of non-certified, non-distressed, non-toxic property experts, give us a call. We’re not too busy panning for the bank’s gold to take it.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jun 28, 2010 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
“You mean, it’s ours? It’s really ours?”
They were so excited. Even after I handed them the keys, they were slow to believe that the modest Spanish bungalow was now in their adoptive custody. Over the course of four exasperating months, we must have seen and dismissed close to a hundred homes. This one needed too much work. That one had a poor kitchen layout. Yet another sat on the “t” of a subdivision’s entrance: bad feng shui, or so I was told. Before the market skies parted and yielded the seventeen hundred square foot, clay tile miracle that appeared to have met extinction in their price range, our flagging spirits were all but ready to pack it in. The May 5th, 2005 discovery saved them from another year of apartment living. A challenge, at best, with a ten year old daughter, let alone with a half-baked bun in the oven.
“Can we go in,” the wife asked in a small, cautious voice.
“Of course,” I responded. “It’s your house, Liz, you can do whatever you please.”
She ignored my extended hand and engulfed me in a fierce hug. Her husband clasped my shoulder in a vice grip which betrayed an adolescence spent laboring on the family farm in Iowa. His curt nod spoke volumes.
“You’re welcome, Mel,” I replied.
“Thank you both for hanging in there with me. I know it hasn’t been easy, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the patience and trust you’ve shown. It’s been a long, tough slog, but I think we got it right.”
“Yes, we did,” Mel said, breaking his silence for the first and only time that morning.
“We would like to have you and your wife over as soon as we get settled,” Liz added.
“I’d like that,” I told her.
I meant it, too. I like just about every client I take on, but felt a special kinship with this couple for reasons that surpassed the extended time spent in each other’s company. After bidding the happy couple farewell, I glanced in the rearview as I navigated my way down the tree-lined street. Instead of going inside, they remained rooted in place, holding hands and staring at their new home.
I received a phone call from Liz this morning. Turns out that Mel has been out of work for some time now, and they cannot afford to keep the house. Might have to move back to the Midwest and look for a position on the farm. See just what kind of life is left in those gnarled, old leather hands.
I hate this job sometimes.
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.
