Lily’s Diary
by Lily
November 2
Ah, winter—the brisk air, the shorter days, the sound of
fire engines speeding to the assistance of those who just wanted
to make the holidays a little cozier. Martha may be safe in the
lockup, but my tenant Jennifer is at large in the unit above me,
armed with bulk candle wax, a glue gun and a soldering iron. While
across the hall, Donald has stored away enough presto logs to restage
Burning Man. So I sat at my desk this morning and composed my annual
winter warning letter, hoping to strike fear in the hearts of my
young tenants who will soon be indulging themselves in the pleasures of the
season. My imagination is plenty vivid about these indulgences—from
the generous use of portable heaters and Christmas tree lights left on 24-hours
a day to scented candles burning near pine boughs and, God forbid, holiday
wrappings stuffed into the fireplace. It’s not that I’m hard-hearted.
I was young once. That’s why I know that under that veneer of sophistication,
sugarplums are dancing in their heads and they just can’t see the possibilities
for disaster. It’s our job as landlords to tell them.
November 12
This afternoon, as I waited in line at Kelly-Moore trying to match
a paint no longer made, my thoughts went back to the painter
whose choice it was to use Sinclair. He is the reason that I
will never again use anyone who advertises in the Bay Guardian.
The guy didn’t speak much
English, but the price was right; and as I walked him through the empty
apartment, I liked the way he stroked the walls lovingly as one
might pet a horse to evaluate muscle tone. Oh, maybe he was a good
painter and there certainly wasn’t
anything wrong with the paint, but I was such a wreck by the time he and
his workers were finished that I never wanted to see him again.
He would disappear for days at a time, making it impossible to
schedule any other work. He refused to paint the bathroom because
he said, while giving his now all too familiar wall strokes, that
he could sense dampness beneath the plaster. I let him get away
with it and ended up painting the bathroom myself. He insisted
that the closet interiors were not part of the deal. When I held
back the last payment until he touched up the “holidays,” he
called at three in the morning, drunk as a skunk, and threatened
me. Eight years later, I am trying to match a paint that no longer
exists; and it’s his fault. By the way, I recently
read that the site of the old Sinclair paint store (15th St. and Market)
is destined to become a Trader Joe’s. That should help me
forget.
November 15
Had a drink with my friend Michael last night—he of the “my
way or the highway” philosophy. (And he wonders why he can’t
keep a boyfriend.) A case in point is how he recently dealt with
his tenants, Brenda and Corliss. Apparently the two are keen on
bicycling and carry their bikes up and down the stairs several
times a week. Michael noticed some scuffing on the wall and let
it go. But when he saw a spot that looked like oil, he spent the
weekend building a large cabinet in the garage for storing the
bikes. Okay, so far. But Michael then insisted that Brenda and
Corliss pay extra for this upgrade in service; after all, it had
its own lock and was also protected by the garage burglar alarm.
Of course, they never requested it nor did they understand why
the cabinet was built in the first place. Michael had failed to
go through the notifying procedure that landlords should do when
a tenant breaks their lease agreement—like what Brenda and
Corliss did by bringing their bicycles into the apartment. As a
result, the tenants now feel they’re being ripped-off
and so does Michael. Neither will budge from their respective positions,
so the cabinet remains unused. The worst part is that what was
once a good relationship has turned frigid, with everyone dreading
a meeting on the stairs. Brenda and Corliss are, however, a lot
more careful with their bikes.
November 19
I sent for a copy of Angela Alioto’s 10-Year Plan to Abolish
Homelessness. As a housing provider, not to mention a human being,
this is a problem that particularly concerns me. The deceptively
simple concept is to provide efficiency apartments for people who
are currently living on the streets. Last year, I strongly criticized
this approach, believing that coping skills should be mastered
first, with an apartment as the end goal. Otherwise how could they
handle things like lighting a gas stove, putting out garbage and
regulating bath water? Surprise—case studies show that if
indigent people get into a permanent
housing unit first, they progress much faster than if they’re
in a program, no matter how excellent, that leaves them on the street
at the end. Without permanent housing, a person never gets out of survival
mode, and recovery is next to impossible. So Angela’s plan is
to redirect money, now spread over hundreds of different programs that
cost millions of dollars, and redirect it to housing for about 3,000
chronically homeless people. In these supportive housing units, residents
will not be required to abstain from alcohol and drugs because if independence
is truly the desired outcome, self-regulation is part of the cure.
The plan is criticized because it won’t take care of everyone
in need, but after years of squabbling and defending people’s
right to live (and die) on the street, it is a laudable start.
December
3
I was stuck at the hairdresser’s waiting for someone with hundreds
of foils to be unrolled when I browsed through the Chronicle’s
rental listings. (While others check the stock market, rental property
owners watch the comparables.) Anyhow, I discovered that the term
Cole Valley is now used for property as far east as Ashbury and as
far west as 3rd Avenue. At least when they list a location as Lower
Pacific Heights, they use a modifier. I can’t exactly remember
when I first heard the term Cole Valley, but I’m sure it wasn’t
around when my great grandmother owned a pair of flats on Grattan.
Some say it was started by Jacob Malekzadeh when he named his Cole
Street liquor store Val de Cole. It was then picked up by poet Thom
Gunn who lived in the neighborhood and, soon after, the name began
appearing in real estate listings. The rest is history and, damn,
I wish my family had kept those flats.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the viewpoint of SFAA or the San Francisco Apartment Magazine.
Lily’s Diary is written by a longtime rental property owner who reserves the right to remain anonymous on the grounds that her tenants might gang up on her. Comments, corrections or ideas are welcome at lilysdiary@aol.com. Copyright © 2004 by the San Francisco Apartment Magazine. All rights reserved.