The following column submission was accepted in April by the Inland Empire Weekly, but was never published.
My brother recently sold his home in Corona and moved back to L.A., a victim of the housing crash.
It was, to my knowledge, his fourth big move in four years. My brother is a salesman by trade, but his real living for the better part of this decade was in flipping homes. He'd buy a house, wait for it to go up in value, then sell it and buy another house -- all the while spending the excess equity like a drunken sailor in the Saudi Arabian Navy. He'd call me each time he closed escrow, shouting that he was a regular financial genius who discovered a new way to make money.
'Twenty-five grand without lifting a finger!" he'd shout. "Tell me I'm not a genius!"
My brother flipped homes right up until the real-estate market began to slide, and then, because he's not a genius, decided he'd do it one more time. Unable to find anyone stupid enough to sell to him in L.A., he zeroed in on a distressed property in south Corona, where stupidity could still be purchased with creative financing. He worked out some crazy deal with the property owner, a man my brother knew at the time to be "a real weirdo" but hoped he could work this to his advantage.
He couldn't. My brother and his wife hung on to the south Corona home long enough to throw one backyard barbecue before quietly slipping back into L.A. under cover of darkness. It was the most expensive barbecue in my family's history.
Watching all this unfold from my vantage point in Riverside was like watching Napoleon trying to break into the Russian real-estate market. The triumphal entry ("You should see this place, Davey! It's my dream home!"). The clash of dreams against grim reality ("This place is killing me, Davey! It's killing me!"). The hasty retreat under hostile fire ("Can you believe that weirdo says he's gonna sue me now?"). It was a black and rainy day, the day my brother and his wife threw all their stuff into an open U-Haul trailer and fled Corona. They say you can still see some of that stuff, broken and abandoned on the side of the freeway between here and L.A.
From his newly rented home in Downey, my brother pretends that his Inland misadventure never happened. I bring it up, and he changes the subject to something else, usually his bills. His credit ruined, his fantasy of being a real-estate tycoon crushed, my brother is a shadow of his former, spendthrift self. I suppose in the long run, that's a good thing -- he'd been living well above his means for years, and at least now I no long have to hear him brag about a fortune I knew existed only on paper. But in the short run, it's hard to see him so humbled. My brother is a naturally fun-loving man, and never so happy as when he's throwing money around and acting the big shot. Those days are over now, for as long as it takes until south Corona falls off his credit report.
It may sound like my brother is a complete idiot who got what was coming to him, but here's the thing: As I'm reminded every time he kicks my ass in chess, my brother isn't stupid. Until the madness of the past four or five years, he was never reckless when it came to taking care of his family. He was a good provider whose wife and son never wanted for anything. But when the housing market went crazy, he went crazy right along with it.
His problem was -- had always been -- that he hated to feel that he was missing out on a good thing. When thousands -- millions - of Americans started spending money like fools because their home equity had skyrocketed, my brother thought to himself, "Everyone else is getting theirs -- why not me?" That the banks were only too happy to indulge this line of reasoning made my brother's financial ruin all the easier to embrace.
So, yeah, it's certainly true that my brother got what was coming to him. But I find myself thinking a lot these days about that moment in the film, "Unforgiven," when Clint Eastwood -- that flinty-eyed icon of American justice -- stares wistfully into the distance and drawls, "We all got it coming, kid."
My brother recently sold his home in Corona and moved back to L.A., a victim of the housing crash.
It was, to my knowledge, his fourth big move in four years. My brother is a salesman by trade, but his real living for the better part of this decade was in flipping homes. He'd buy a house, wait for it to go up in value, then sell it and buy another house -- all the while spending the excess equity like a drunken sailor in the Saudi Arabian Navy. He'd call me each time he closed escrow, shouting that he was a regular financial genius who discovered a new way to make money.
'Twenty-five grand without lifting a finger!" he'd shout. "Tell me I'm not a genius!"
My brother flipped homes right up until the real-estate market began to slide, and then, because he's not a genius, decided he'd do it one more time. Unable to find anyone stupid enough to sell to him in L.A., he zeroed in on a distressed property in south Corona, where stupidity could still be purchased with creative financing. He worked out some crazy deal with the property owner, a man my brother knew at the time to be "a real weirdo" but hoped he could work this to his advantage.
He couldn't. My brother and his wife hung on to the south Corona home long enough to throw one backyard barbecue before quietly slipping back into L.A. under cover of darkness. It was the most expensive barbecue in my family's history.
Watching all this unfold from my vantage point in Riverside was like watching Napoleon trying to break into the Russian real-estate market. The triumphal entry ("You should see this place, Davey! It's my dream home!"). The clash of dreams against grim reality ("This place is killing me, Davey! It's killing me!"). The hasty retreat under hostile fire ("Can you believe that weirdo says he's gonna sue me now?"). It was a black and rainy day, the day my brother and his wife threw all their stuff into an open U-Haul trailer and fled Corona. They say you can still see some of that stuff, broken and abandoned on the side of the freeway between here and L.A.
From his newly rented home in Downey, my brother pretends that his Inland misadventure never happened. I bring it up, and he changes the subject to something else, usually his bills. His credit ruined, his fantasy of being a real-estate tycoon crushed, my brother is a shadow of his former, spendthrift self. I suppose in the long run, that's a good thing -- he'd been living well above his means for years, and at least now I no long have to hear him brag about a fortune I knew existed only on paper. But in the short run, it's hard to see him so humbled. My brother is a naturally fun-loving man, and never so happy as when he's throwing money around and acting the big shot. Those days are over now, for as long as it takes until south Corona falls off his credit report.
It may sound like my brother is a complete idiot who got what was coming to him, but here's the thing: As I'm reminded every time he kicks my ass in chess, my brother isn't stupid. Until the madness of the past four or five years, he was never reckless when it came to taking care of his family. He was a good provider whose wife and son never wanted for anything. But when the housing market went crazy, he went crazy right along with it.
His problem was -- had always been -- that he hated to feel that he was missing out on a good thing. When thousands -- millions - of Americans started spending money like fools because their home equity had skyrocketed, my brother thought to himself, "Everyone else is getting theirs -- why not me?" That the banks were only too happy to indulge this line of reasoning made my brother's financial ruin all the easier to embrace.
So, yeah, it's certainly true that my brother got what was coming to him. But I find myself thinking a lot these days about that moment in the film, "Unforgiven," when Clint Eastwood -- that flinty-eyed icon of American justice -- stares wistfully into the distance and drawls, "We all got it coming, kid."
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